


Cupcakes and Kittens

by MandalaRose



Series: Cupcake 'Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Almost a Two Broke Girls AU, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And a Seriously Cute Kitten, Baker Dean Winchester, Baking class, Cat Rescuer Castiel, Coffee Shop Manager Castiel, Confidently Bi Dean, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Formerly Wealthy Castiel, Frottage, Gosh I wish you could rearrange the order of tags, Happy Ending, Let me say that again, M/M, Masturbation, Mostly fluff though, Mutual Pining, No kittens come to harm in this story, Openly Gay Castiel, Pining, Plus Kitten(s), Reluctant Kitten Owner Dean Winchester, Sloooooow Burn, Slow Burn, So Many Desserts, TWO PERSON LOVE TRIANGLE!!!, The boys are softer than the kitten, and, are you ready for this?, don't read if hungry, handkink, mentions of past canonical character death, online flirting, online meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:48:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 73,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26265997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MandalaRose/pseuds/MandalaRose
Summary: Dean Winchester is not a cat guy.But one softhearted Sasquatch brother and a mad dash to the pet store later, Dean somehow finds himself the sole caregiver for an abandoned baby kitten. It's a good thing that quirky pet store girl gave him the Twitter handle for her cat rescue buddy, CJ. Dean doesn't know about the kitten, but he sure as hell could use some rescuing right about now.Castiel Novak is not a baker.But one interfering best friend and some dismal Yelp reviews for his brother's coffee shop later, Castiel somehow finds himself standing in front of a cook top in his very first baking class, his non-existent baking aspirations literally going up in smoke around him. It's a good thing his gorgeous, green-eyed classmate is there to rescue him...
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Madison (Supernatural: Heart)/Sam Winchester, Referenced: - Relationship, Sarah Blake/Sam Winchester
Series: Cupcake 'Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2161983
Comments: 1710
Kudos: 884
Collections: Angel’s Supernatural favorites, FicFacer$ 2020, Mixtape Book Club Podcast - Discussed Fics, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Preheat the oven to 325 degrees F.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AmandaCanzo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmandaCanzo/gifts).



> Hello friends! It's posting day!!!!
> 
> I am SO excited to share this story with you. This is my winning bidder's fic for the 2020 [FicFacer$](https://www.juliahouston.com/fic-facers/) charity auction to benefit [Random Acts](https://www.randomacts.org/).* Thank you so much for bidding on me [AmandaCanzo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmandaCanzo/pseuds/AmandaCanzo)! Both writing for you and getting to know you have been an absolute blast! I truly hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I have enjoyed creating it for you.  
> Amanda gave me a lot of room and creative license with this prompt. In our early conversations I discovered that she has a great love for baking in real life, baker!Dean in fics, and cats (in both real life and fics), which gave me everything I needed to run with this idea.  
> Speaking of FicFacer$, I was lucky enough to win a piece of artwork by the incredibly talented [LadyRandomBox](https://instagram.com/ladyrandombox_art?igshid=jx2fxp39x469)! A truly lovely artist and person, she drew me the most AMAZING art that was everything I'd dreamed of and THEN she just... kept drawing?? Before I knew it, we had a full-on art collab! I am SO grateful she liked this story enough that she wanted to draw more for it and I can't wait for you to see her beautiful artwork! Seriously. I haven't been able to stop staring at it for a couple of weeks now. It's on my computer, my phone, I've texted it to my sister... I can't get enough!  
> And to the FicFacer$ mods, thank you for running an auction that not only helps to raise money for a very worthy cause, but also helped me connect with two new fandom friends!
> 
> On a more personal note, I chose today to begin posting this story because today marks the two-year anniversary of the car accident that inspired my story _[Stay With Me, Sweetheart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20554178/chapters/48790868)_ and prompted me to start writing fanfic in the first place. It was one year ago today that I began posting _Sweetheart_. And those who have read that story might remember that today is also a very special day for that Dean and Cas. 😉  
> So basically, I'm a giant sap. And if my sappiness means we all have something happy and fluffy to read as our beloved show draws to a close, all the better. I think we could all use a little fluff right now.  
> As always, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy the story!
> 
> A Note on graphics:  
> This story contains a lot of art and graphics. If you are reading on a smartphone, you can view an image of the banner and larger art pieces scaled to fit your screen by clicking on the image. The text message and DM graphics should be sized to fit most smartphone screens.  
> For the messaging graphics I have added alt text that should hopefully read like a narrative if you are using a screen reader, instead of just including the text in the image, which would come off very disjointed without the context of the image and speech bubbles. Please let me know if this isn't working or if I missed something.
> 
> ***Edit***  
> OMG I am an absolute garbage person who forgot to add the wonderful and brilliant [EllenOfOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz) to my opening notes. She's the most incredible friend, supporter, and beta any writer could ever ask for. Our time zones don't match up, so she's usually settling in for the evening when I'm waking up at ungodly hours of the morning and we spend so much time writing together that it starts to feel weird writing without her. She's my constant cheerleader and I don't know what I'd do without her! She reads every single thing I write before anyone else and even though she's one of the busiest people I know she always makes time for my nonsense. I'm mortified that I forgot to mention someone who's become as integral to my writing as I am. Thank you my dear friend for putting up with my hot mess self.

Dean frowns at the smartphone clutched in his hand, the familiar clangs, shouts, and sizzles of the _Harvelle’s Roadhouse_ kitchen on a Friday night carrying on behind him as he rereads his last few texts with his brother.

When glaring at his screen for a solid thirty seconds does nothing to elicit a response from Sam, he finally huffs and slips the phone back into his pocket before washing his hands and rejoining Benny on the line, dropping the fries for his next order in the deep fryer on his way to grab two of Ellen’s secret-recipe beef patties so he can make the best double cheeseburger in a 200-mile radius.

He’s just finished plating the order and is sliding it into the window with a bellowed, “Order up,” when he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. Wiping his hand on the towel hanging over his shoulder before stepping away from the line again, Dean breathes a sigh of relief when he finally reads Sam’s message.

If he weren’t equal parts annoyed and relieved right now he might be amused at the fact that he can practically _see_ Sam’s bitchface (probably Bitchface No. 3, if Dean had to guess) as he re-reads his brother’s last message. Hearing another order come in on the line, he quickly types out a response before returning the phone to his pocket and heading for the sink.

He does feel a bit calmer knowing his little brother hasn’t managed to set his kitchen on fire in the ten and a half hours he’s been unsupervised in Dean’s home. Last time Sam visited for the weekend, he tried to boil water for some mac-n-cheese and Dean had come home to blaring smoke detectors and an entire kitchen that smelled like scorched noodles. 

His immediate fears assuaged, Dean doesn’t have any more time to worry about Sam’s mysterious and frustratingly vague texts as the dinner rush hits its peak. The next ninety minutes are the usual Friday night blur of the artery-clogging burgers and equally heart-stopping sides that make the _Roadhouse_ famous among the locals. It might just be greasy bar food, but the fries are hand-cut, the onion rings and fish are breaded in-house, and Ellen makes a meatloaf sandwich with a log of mozzarella _inside_ the meatloaf.

“Order up!” Dean calls, sliding two plates, one with a cheeseburger and onion rings and the other holding a basket of fish and chips, onto the waiting tray underneath the heat lamps above his grill. He grimaces as he realizes the last order he finished is still in the window.

“Meg!” His shout cuts across the Roadhouse’s small kitchen. “Get your goddamn food out of my window!”

“Yeah, yeah, keep your shirt on, pretty boy!” Meg slides the tray holding a family-of-four’s dinner out of the window, tossing Dean a saucy wink as she goes. “Or don’t. I sure as hell won’t complain.”

“Bite me, she-beast,” Dean retorts, rolling his eyes at Meg’s all-too-familiar flirting.

“Careful what you wish for, Dean-o. I’d eat you alive.” Meg smirks and blows Dean a kiss on her way out of the kitchen.

“That I believe. Fucking harpy,” Dean mutters under his breath to the amused chuckle of Benny, the other line-cook on tonight. 

“Not that I don’t appreciate the help, cher,” Benny starts in his Louisianan drawl, “but ain’t Sam visiting this weekend?”

“Yeah,” Dean answers, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He’d felt it buzz a while ago, but they’ve been too slammed for him to check it. “He’s at my place now. I couldn’t leave you guys in the lurch with Roy callin’ out though.”

“Sorry about that, brother. You really did save my ass, but I sure hate to make you miss your visit with Sam.”

“Eh, it’s okay.” Dean shrugs as he wipes down the prep counter by the grill. “Knew I wasn’t gonna see much of him this weekend anyway. He really just needed a quiet place to study for finals. Not to mention the free laundry and food service,” Dean adds with a fond eye roll. Sam goes to school in Omaha, which is less than a three-hour drive from Sioux Falls, but even so, he only makes it home about once a month, usually when he’s out of clean underwear.

“Well, that should wrap up the dinner rush for the evening. You might wanna get outta here though, before the bar crowd piles in,” Benny advises as he chugs a glass of water and turns to make sure they’ve got plenty of wings, fries, and the rest of their most popular bar staples prepped and ready to soak up the alcohol Ellen’s patrons will begin guzzling down in the next couple of hours. 

“Ellen has Jo comin’ in to help her with the bar and Ash is gonna help me cover the kitchen. We’re all good,” he adds.

“That means get the hell outta here, Winchester!” Ellen calls as she strides through the kitchen, “And tell that brother of yours if he visits our neck of the woods without planting his ass at one of my tables again, he won’t make it to finals.”

“Yeah, I hear ya.” Dean grins. “I’m headin’ out soon.” 

Pulling his stained white apron over his head, he tugs his phone from the pocket of his jeans again to check his waiting messages from Sam.

“What the hell?”

Dean stares at the picture of the tiny orange and white kitten. The little ball of fluff is curled up on a black welcome mat that looks suspiciously familiar. He messages Sam back, really hoping his brother hasn’t done what Dean thinks he has.

With a half-exasperated, half-affectionate sigh at the tender-hearted child-giant that is his baby brother, Dean pushes open the _Roadhouse’s_ back door and heads out into the frigid February night, watching his breath form little white puffs in front of his face as he continues texting with Sam.

Huh. Bitchface No. 5 has its own emoji. Whatd’ya know? Smirking in spite of the sudden turn his night has taken, Dean types out his next desperate attempt to salvage his weekend.

Dean groans and presses the call button next to Sam’s name as he slides behind the wheel of his beloved 1967 Chevy Impala, shifting his weight back and forth to limit the amount of ass-contact he has with the freezing leather upholstery. 

“They close?” he asks as soon as he hears Sam pick up.

“Uh, yeah, Dean. They’re an animal shelter. Not a Denny’s.”

“I know that,” he answers irritably. “I was thinking more along the lines of a hospital. Don’t the animals need someone taking care of them overnight or something?”

“These animals aren’t sick. They’re just homeless. Animals are perfectly capable of taking care of themselves overnight. Unless, of course, they’re _tiny, helpless, abandoned babies._ ”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear ya, Hagrid. I’ll get the kitten formula. But you better not let any more goddamn wildlife into my living room. And we’re not keeping it. You better be finding somewhere for this thing to go tomorrow, or I’m gonna boot its fuzzy little ass right back to the welcome mat.”

“A kitten hardly qualifies as _wildlife_ , Dean. And I’m already working on finding it somewhere to go, although it probably wouldn’t hurt you to have someone else around here to talk to.”

Great. His brother is just the right age to combine prissy teenage sass with grown-asshole unsolicited advice. Why did he think it’d be a good idea for the kid to visit again?

“Sure. You know what the best part of talking to a cat would be? They don’t talk back. Now start Googling animal shelters, bitch.”

He barely hears Sam’s answering “Jerk” before he hangs up the phone and tosses it on the passenger seat with a smirk. Serves Sam right. Thinking the two of them can take care of a baby kitten. There _has_ to be someone else out there who’s better prepared for this. In fact, Dean knows there is and it’s literally _anyone else but him._

Dean’s just come off a twelve-hour shift, he smells like a goddamn grease trap, and he can _feel_ the oily film that coats his skin from a day spent moving between a grill and a deep fryer. All-in-all, he’s in a pretty piss poor mood by the time he stumbles into the local pet store. As annoyed as he is though, he still feels a sense of relief when he sees the neon “Open,” sign in the window. He’d been worried the store would already be closed, but it looks like he made it just in time. 

Finding his way to the cat section at the back of the store via a helpful little road sign with colorful arrows, Dean scowls at the long stretch of cat food options. Why the hell are there so many? What the hell do cats even eat anyway? He picks up the nearest bag and reads the ingredients: _Whole ground corn, soybean meal, chicken by-product meal…_

Making a disgusted face, he quickly sets it back on the shelf and opts for a package that claims to be “100% Grain-Free” and has a picture of a wild lynx on the front. Nodding approvingly, he reads the back of the package, which promises no soy or “by-products” (whatever the fuck those are). Unlike the last bag, the first ingredient seems to be actual chicken. If he were a cat-person, which he’s _not_ , this is what he’d feed his cat. Fuck that other shit.

A loudspeaker chimes overhead and a clearly exhausted employee says in her best, get-the-fuck-out-of-here-before-I-start-turning-off-the-lights-on-your-goddamn-loitering-asses customer service voice, “Attention customers, Purrs and Paws will be closing in five minutes. Please make your final selections and move toward the registers. Have a paws-itively purr-fect evening.”

Startled back to action, Dean hastily replaces the lynx-sporting bag of cat food and moves on down the aisle. All the bags he sees say either “adult” or “senior.” Almost to the end of the aisle, he spots a series of smaller bags labelled “kitten chow.” Eureka.

Dean scoops up the nearest bag and is about to head to the front of the store when he pauses. Wait, Sam said “kitten formula.” Did that mean “formula” as in the recipe for the kitten chow, or “formula” like baby formula? Shit.

He scans the aisle for something, _anything_ labeled “kitten formula.”

“Goddamn, shaggy-haired fleabag better appreciate this,” he grumbles under his breath. An elderly woman pushing an assortment of both wet and dry cat food stops to shoot him a dirty look on her way past.

“I’m talking about my brother, not the cat,” Dean clarifies, but she just sniffs and makes her glare even more pointed.

Dean scowls at her and she moves on in a huff, casting disapproving glances back at him as she goes.

He’s considering the pros and cons of giving an octogenarian the finger when the overhead speaker dings again. “Attention customers, Purrs and Paws is now closed. Please bring your items to the registers.”

“God-fucking-dammit!” Dean nearly shouts, eyes scouring the aisle even more frantically.

“Whoa dude, you look a little stressed. Can I help you find something?”

Dean spins around to see a petite redhead dressed in a smock emblazoned with the pet store’s logo: a pair of overlapping paw-prints. 

“Uh, sure,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Sorry about that.”

“No problemo. I’m guessing you don’t spend a lot of time in pet stores,” Red chuckles. “New pet owner?”

“Uh, not exactly.” Dean recounts the story of his bonehead brother taking in a kitten as quickly as he can to the chipper employee who is clearly _not_ the one with loudspeaker privileges.

“Well, it’s hard to know exactly what to give you without knowing the kitten’s age, but take these.” She stoops to the very bottom shelf and quickly snatches up a bottle of—Dean leans down to read the label—“kitten milk replacer” and what looks to be a very tiny baby bottle. 

“It’s good of you to take the little thing in. A kitten that young could easily freeze to death overnight in these temperatures.”

The employee— _Charlie_ , according to the name tag on her purple smock—shoves the items, along with a couple of cans of wet food, into Dean’s arms. 

“This’ll do you for now. Just follow the directions on the back of the can. If the kitten does well with the formula but still seems hungry, it might be big enough for you to try mixing the formula in with some of the wet food.”

Dean nods along mutely, desperately hoping he’ll remember her instructions by the time he finally makes it home. Somehow, the more he learns about how to care for this kitten, the _more_ anxious he gets.

“Like I said, this will get you started, but if you’re going to be fostering long term, you’ll need more supplies. A litter box, toys, a scratching post—”

“Thanks,” he cuts her off hurriedly, “but I’m definitely _not_ gonna have it long term. We’re dropping it off at the shelter tomorrow."

Charlie looks a little disappointed by this news, but she just nods and says, “Well then, I think you’re all set. Let’s get you checked out.”

It’s a testament to Dean’s current levels of stress and exhaustion that he doesn’t make a joke about that last sentence.

Fortunately, Charlie does it for him.

“Bet you get checked out all the time though, huh?” she teases, elbowing him playfully.

When Dean gapes at her, she laughs. “What? I could tell you were thinking it. Definitely _not_ hitting on you, by the way. Not that you aren’t dreamy, but I totally bat for the home team.”

Despite the crazy turn his day has taken, Dean huffs a laugh at that.

“Thanks again,” he says sincerely. “You’ve been a life saver.”

“Glad to help,” the redhead assures him as they reach the check out lanes. She stares at him a moment before stepping up to the nearest empty register.

“I know you’re only planning on having it for the night, but here...” 

Pressing a button to unroll a stretch of blank receipt paper from the register, she pulls a pen out of her _Purrs & Paws _ apron and scribbles something down. “I don’t actually know much about taking care of newborn kittens. I’m more of a reptile girl. But my buddy volunteers part-time with a cat rescue. He should be able to help you out if you have any questions. Just send him a message on Twitter.”

Setting his armful of cat nourishment on the conveyor belt, Dean takes the offered slip of paper from the smiling woman and glances down at the name: @CJAngelRescue.

“CJ, huh?”

“That’s him. Just shoot him a message if you get stuck. He’ll know what to do. And if you _do_ end up needing anything else from my humble kingdom of pet food and supplies, just ask for Charlie.”

“Thanks, Charlie, really. Again,” Dean says earnestly as the sour-faced teenage cashier rings up his items, clearly annoyed that he’s still here ten minutes past closing. Dean shoots her an apologetic smile and offers Charlie a grateful two-finger salute as he heads back out into the cold.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam greets as Dean opens his front door, “Did you get the formula?”

“Formula, wet food, dry food. I’ve got a feline smorgasbord here.” Dean sets the plastic _Purrs & Paws _ bag on the round, four-seater table in his small eat-in kitchen before walking back into the living room and over to where Sam is seated on the couch, one of Dean’s older bathroom towels spread across his lap.

A plaintive mewling drifts up from the folded towel and Sam lifts the top layer of blue terry cloth to reveal the same tiny orange and white ball of fur Dean had seen on his phone screen a few hours ago. The kitten looks significantly cozier now, though that doesn’t stop its complaining. An orange face streaked with white along the nose and eyes stares up at Dean with dark blue eyes. Nestled next to the kitten is what looks to be one of Sam’s white gym socks, knotted closed and filled with something.

“What’s that?” Dean asks, gesturing at the sock. “You tryin’ to gas the poor thing?”

“No, Dean.” Sam answers, accompanying his response with the nearly-compulsory teenage eye roll. Dean had been hoping he’d outgrow that once he went to college, but apparently petulant sass is a core part of his brother’s personality. Lucky Dean. “It’s a rice-filled sock. I did a little research while you were gone and I found a ton of websites on how to care for abandoned kittens.”

“And the sock?”

“Oh yeah, so get this,” Sam starts with that nerdy baby-brother glow Dean knows so well. He sighs and leans a hip against the sofa, settling in for what is likely to be a long-winded explanation. “Apparently, kittens less than four weeks old can’t regulate their own body temperature. That’s why they spend so much time cuddled up with the mama cat. This little one, oh, a little _girl_ by the way, not guy, looks to be about four or five weeks old based on the pictures I found, but even then they still need a heat source nearby. It also helps with their eating and digestion. The website said it was dangerous to feed a kitten while they’re really cold and recommended heating up a rice-filled sock in the microwave to help them keep warm.”

“So, four weeks old, what’s that mean? Does it still need the kitten formula or did I make an ass out of myself at the pet store for nothing?”

“She’s still gonna need to be bottle fed for a little while longer I think, but the good news is, she went to the bathroom a little while ago, so at least we know she's old enough to eliminate on her own.”

Dean blinks. “Uh, excuse me? Did you just say at least it can _eliminate_ on its own? Are you telling me this thing is so fragile it can’t even take a dump without help? What the fuck, Sam?”

“This _thing_ is a living creature, Dean,” Sam chides with a frown. “A baby. And like I said, she _can_ take a dump on her own, so it doesn’t matter anyway.”

“Okay. Fine. So, it can shit on its own, but it can’t eat on its own. How do we feed it?”

“Well, you got the formula right? Did you get a bottle?”

Retrieving the bag from the table, Dean rummages through it before triumphantly pulling out a small plastic bottle with a collection of rubber nipples sealed next to it in the packaging.

“Bottle. Check.”

“Then I guess you just follow the directions on the formula container. You have to make sure to warm it up a little, but not too hot, just like for a human baby.”

“Yeah, yeah, the whole squirt the milk on your wrist thing. I’ve seen Three Men and a Baby, thank you very much.”

“Uh, right. And look, I cued up a YouTube video for you too. It explains all about how to bottle feed a kitten.”

“Wait, what do you mean you cued up a YouTube video _for me_? This is your project, Snow White. Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Sam is carefully nestling the towel into one of the boxes Dean recognizes as having stored some of the crap Sam didn’t want to haul to his dorm room with him, cooing at the still crying kitten as he does so.

“Um, I kinda made plans with Kevin and Channing, remember?”

“Yeah, but that was before you decided to turn my home into a frickin’ wildlife preserve.”

Sam sighs. “It’s a kitten, Dean. Not a Siberian tiger. You’ll be fine. Come on, please? Kevin was out of the country with his mom for my entire winter break. I haven’t seen him since Thanksgiving and he works all day tomorrow.”

“Advanced Placement Kevin? Still can’t believe that nerd didn’t graduate a year early. Isn’t his mom already filling out his med school applications?”

“He _is_ graduating a year early. He should only be a junior this year.”

“Oh.” Glancing back and forth between Sam’s puppy eyes and the kitten, who has temporarily stopped crying as Sam scratches it under the chin, Dean finally caves with a deep sigh and a hand rubbing at his tired eyelids. “Fine. Go hang out with the baby genius and his girlfriend. But this thing is out of here tomorrow, Sam. I mean it.”

“Thanks, Dean. I appreciate it. Really.”

“Yeah, yeah. Get outta here,” Dean grumbles, but Sam is already pulling on his coat and boots. Minutes later, he’s headed out the door.

Seeing Dean staring at the meowing box with a disgruntled expression, Sam hesitates, his hand on the doorknob. “Good luck with the kitten. Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“I kept you alive, didn’t I?” Dean grumbles. “A kitten can’t be any more difficult than a baby moose. Besides, the pet store girl gave me the info for some cat rescue dude.”

“That’s perfect.” Sam beams. “Maybe he’ll be able to take the kitten or find someone else to foster her.”

“For your sake, I hope so. Now get outta here before I change my mind.”

“Going,” Sam squeaks, clearly not wanting to risk Dean following through on his threat, not that he would. He may gripe about it, but Dean’s actually relieved to see his little brother acting like an actual kid for a change. Sam spends way too much time with his nose stuck in his books. Some socialization will be good for him, even if it is with the only other two people he knows who see even less sunlight than his brother.

Just before the door closes, Sam sticks his head back in. “Oh, and don’t forget to burp the kitten after you feed her!”

“Burp the kitten?” Dean asks aloud, looking accusingly at the ball of fluff trying to claw its way out of the box at his feet.

“ _Meow,”_ answers the kitten.

“Yeah, I hear ya,” Dean tells the box. Squatting down next to it, he locks eyes with the orange fuzzball.

“Look, I don’t like cats. And cats don’t like me. Well, cats don’t like anything,” Dean concedes, “but I reckon you and I can get along for one night.”

“ _Meow._ ” The kitten scrabbles fruitlessly at the cardboard walls, seeming to reach for Dean.

Dean hesitates for a moment before reaching into the box and scooping up the kitten. Holding it up in front of his face, he speaks to it seriously, “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll let you out of the box, but you gotta promise not to _eliminate_ on me or anything cloth-covered. Capiche?”

“ _Meow_.”

Taking that for agreement, Dean cradles the kitten carefully against his chest one-handed as he uses the other to pick up the bottle and pet store bag. Heading into the kitchen, he sets both on the counter top next to the sink, before looking down at the kitten.

“Alright, fuzzball, I gotta set you down for a minute so I can get your dinner ready.” Dean sets the kitten down on the laminate counter top, where it stands splay-legged, seemingly frozen in place as it begins bawling even more determinedly than before.

“Hey, hey, shh. It’s okay.” Quickly scooping up the frightened animal, he holds it to his chest again. “Okay. I take it you didn’t like that.”

After a moment’s consideration, he walks back to the living room, grabbing the towel and the still-warm rice sock from the box with his free hand. Returning to the kitchen, he places both on the counter top, scrunching the bunched-up towel into a sort of nest around the make-shift heating pad.

Carefully disengaging the kitten’s tiny claws from his t-shirt, he sets it down in the nest, where it gives a single curious mewl before snuggling into the rice sock. With a sigh of relief, Dean makes quick work of washing the little bottle and one of the nipples with warm water and soap before grabbing the container of formula and reading the directions.

“One part kitten milk replacer to two parts warm water,” he reads, wondering how much “one part” should be. Looking at the small size of the bottle, he decides it can’t be too much and pulls a teaspoon out of the small jar of measuring spoons next to the oven.

Grabbing a clean coffee mug, he dumps one spoonful of the powdered formula in before adding two teaspoons of warm water. Stirring the formula carefully, he makes sure all the lumps are gone before pouring it into the bottle and yes, squirting a little on his wrist to make sure it’s not too hot for the kitten’s mouth. Of course, it would probably be helpful if he had _any idea_ how hot is too hot for a kitten.

_Goddammit, Sam._

Still cursing his brother in his head, he scoops up the combination of towel, sock, and kitten from the counter top and marches them all back to the sofa where he sits, much like Sam had, with the kitten resting on his towel-covered lap.

Feeling strangely nervous, he stares at the kitten in his lap. Right. He can do this. He’s about to offer the kitten the bottle when he sees the laptop Sam left open on the coffee table. Deciding that getting some bottle-feeding pointers couldn’t possibly hurt, Dean clicks play on the video.

Eight minutes later, the kitten is mewing impatiently and Dean feels somehow even more nervous than he did before. Swallowing down his nerves, he cradles the kitten in the same football-style hold he’d seen in the video, offering the bottle with his other hand.

“Okay, you. Chow time.”

Carefully keeping the bottle tipped up so that no air gets into the nipple, Dean rubs the latex against the kitten’s mouth. The kitten laps greedily at the drop of the formula that seeps out against its lips before chewing at the nipple.

Despite its apparent eagerness, the kitten doesn’t latch onto the nipple and suck the way the kittens in the video had. Dean tries repositioning both kitten and bottle several times, but that only results in mewled complaints from his furry companion.

“What’s wrong, little one?” he asks. “I know this stuff probably doesn’t taste as good as the real thing, but you gotta eat, buddy.”

After several more minutes, the kitten begins wriggling fiercely, both its frustration and Dean’s growing. Dean finally gives up, setting the bottle down and frowning at the feline in his lap until he remembers the slip of receipt paper currently sitting in his coat pocket. Right. The rescue guy. What was his handle again?

Retrieving the paper with the animal rescue guy’s information from the hook by the door, Dean pulls his phone out of his pocket and thumbs open Twitter, doing a quick search for “@CJAngelRescue.” He fires off a DM to the dude, explaining his situation.

Pacing anxiously around his living room, kitten tucked protectively against his chest, Dean hopes this guy is as addicted to social media as most other people he knows and will see his message soon. His worries end up being for nothing though. It’s only a couple of minutes before his phone buzzes with a response.

Dean quickly explains that he has all of those options on hand. After having Dean wash his hands and confirm the kitten’s age by feeling inside of its mouth to make sure its molars haven’t come in (apparently that would have been a sign that it may have already weaned and needs solid food), CJ runs him through the same series of questions and steps Sam had: warming up the kitten (apparently being too cold keeps the kitten from swallowing properly), making sure it has a heat source, and making sure the formula isn’t too hot or too cold.

Dean cringes. CJ is right. Freaking out isn’t going to get the kitten to eat. Sighing, he forces himself to stop pacing and flops back down on the couch.

Dean feels himself warm at the praise, even if it is unwarranted. He only knew to do most of that stuff because Sam told him to. He’s sure had he been completely on his own, this whole thing would have been a much bigger shit show.

Dean quickly follows CJ’s suggestions, wrapping the kitten in the towel like a baby burrito to calm her squirming and positioning the bottle over top of the rice sock, so it’s almost like she’s nursing from a warm body instead of a random nipple appearing from nowhere. As much sense as CJ's ideas make, Dean’s still shocked when they actually work and the kitten stays calm and settled long enough to latch onto the bottle and begin sucking down the formula.

“Whoa, easy there, tiger,” he chuckles, making sure to keep adjusting the angle of the bottle so the chugging kitten doesn’t guzzle a belly full of air with her formula. Both CJ and Sam’s video had warned about that multiple times.

When the kitten finally slows in its suckling, Dean eases the bottle down, scratching behind a tiny, orange ear. “Better?” he asks the sleepy kitten as she rubs a paw over her own face, wiping at the residual formula there.

Reaching for his phone, Dean types out a jubilant (and relieved) message to the cat guy.

Oh, right. Sam had mentioned the burping. Holding the tiny kitten at eye level, Dean tilts his head to catch sleepy blue eyes with his. “Alright, you. Time to burp. Better out than in and all that, but do me a favor and don’t be spewing any of that formula back at me, okay?”

The kitten licks her nose.

“Right.”

With a sigh and a brief thought that this is not at all how he saw his night (or any night ever) going, Dean rests the kitten against his shoulder as CJ instructed. After only about a minute of firm petting, he hears a small, high-pitched bubble-noise that he assumes must be a kitten-burp.

“Well, that’s the most adorable burp I’ve ever heard,” he tells the kitten as she proceeds to snuggle into his neck. “Definitely cuter than Sam’s sasquatch belches.”

One hand holding the kitten in position against his neck, Dean carries the mostly-empty bottle back into the kitchen. It’s a bit tricky unscrewing the lid and rinsing everything out one-handed, but he manages, unwilling to disrupt the now-purring fur ball. He figures the poor thing has earned a little comfort after being out in the cold all day and then being made to wait so long for her dinner.

He sighs again when he moves to clean-up the formula container and measuring spoon on the table, just now spotting the printed flier Sam had left there, advertising a beginner’s baking class. This is an old argument between them. Sure, Dean may love baking (and is maybe even pretty good at it, judging by the reactions of anyone who’s tried his caramel apple strudel or chocolate raspberry tarts) but turning a hobby into a career that can actually pay his bills is easier said than done, no matter what the flier in front of him is advertising.

Kitten-feeding mess mostly cleaned up, Dean decides to shoot one more message off to CJ before calling it a night. Angling his phone so that he can get a photo of the kitten’s face where she’s resting in the crook of his neck is difficult, but manageable, even though all you can really see is a white face surrounded by orange fur and a bit of Dean’s neck and ear.

He sends it to CJ anyway, along with a message.

Dean explains the box and rice-sock arrangement to CJ, who approves.

After snuggling the sleeping kitten into the box next to her newly re-warmed rice-sock, Dean showers off the day’s grease and sweat, happy to no longer smell like old French fries and onions. True to CJ’s prediction, the kitten does indeed wake up crying in the middle of the night. Dropping his hand into the box positioned next to his bed, Dean scratches the mewling kitten’s head and belly until she falls back asleep, purring once more with her chin resting on two of his fingers.

It would almost be cute…if he were a cat person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed our introduction to Dean, CJ, and Dean's temporary, definitely-is-not-staying kitten. 😉  
> How many chapters do you think before Dean caves? Tell me your guess in the comments! Also, any guesses about Dean's Twitter handle? If I like your idea better than mine, I'll change it and give you credit! 
> 
> Speaking of that kitten, how GORGEOUS is LRB's artwork in this chapter? You can check out that adorable kitten pic in its full-sized glory [here](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/727055845380194366/749860926328537139/cupcake_mat2.jpg)!
> 
> In this chapter, we learned a little bit about Dean and got a glimpse into his life. Next week we'll learn a little more about Cas and see more of D and CJ's interactions as well... and of course, more kitten! 😍


	2. Mix the dry ingredients and set aside for later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Monday, all!! 
> 
> Hoo buddy has it been an intense week in Fandom, Destiel Fam! I hope you'll all accept this little fluffy orange offering as my tribute to all the things we LOVE about this show and especially, of course, its resident idiots-in-love.
> 
> We had lots of great guesses on when Dean will cave to the kitten-cuteness last week. The most popular one seemed to be Chapter 3 (or maybe 4, depending on which folks meant by "2 more chapters"). We shall see!
> 
> And I loved all your thoughts on Dean's Twitter handle! I hope you like what I came up with! There isn't really much triggery content in this fic, but as I was re-reading yesterday, I did note one little thing that might be upsetting for some, so I'll add a trigger warning in the end notes for those who think they may need it. It has to do with animal shelters.
> 
> Thank you so very, very much to my brilliant friend and trusted beta, [EllenOfOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz), who has betaed all of this fic that has been written so far and who I shamefully forgot to mention last week!! So sorry, Ellen, love, even though I know you said it's not necessary. 😘
> 
> Thank you again as well to [LadyRandomBox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRandomBox/pseuds/LadyRandomBox), who also helped beta this fic! You will also see a little more of her beautiful art in this (and every) chapter! 💖
> 
> And now let's gather our final few ingredients in preparation for some kitchen chemistry!

“Hey, Cassie. How goes it?”

Castiel looks up from his smartphone as Gabriel enters _The_ _Sweet Bean,_ strolling into the coffeeshop he owns and, in theory operates, hours after opening.

“I thought you were opening today?” Castiel asks with a raise of his eyebrow. “You do know we open at six, I'd assume, since you're the one who set the hours?”

“Of course,” Gabriel agrees easily, sauntering around the corner and beginning to prepare himself one of the barely drinkable, sugar-loaded lattes he favors. “But that’s what I hired you for, baby bro! Why would I haul myself out of bed to be here at the ass crack of dawn when I have a fancy new store manager for that?”

Castiel narrows his eyes, but can’t disagree. He does, however, resolve to be extra noisy in the future as he gets himself ready for work in the mornings, seeing as how he’s currently staying in Gabriel’s apartment.

“Yes. Well, speaking as your store manager, your lackluster work ethic aside, we have a problem.”

“That you’re a grumpy asshole in the mornings?” Gabe asks as he retreats back to the customer-side of the counter before licking the caramel drizzle that has overflowed onto the outside rim of his paper cup. At least his brother has the decency to obey basic health code regulations, even if he can’t be bothered to show up to his own place of business on time.

Sighing, Castiel reminds himself that Gabriel is doing him a _favor_ by giving him a job here, even if the man’s books are a mess, his filing non-existent, and his fairly popular coffeeshop about three months from going under from poor management alone. “No, Gabe, the problem is our Yelp reviews. Have you seen these?” He waves his phone in Gabe’s face, the familiar red “Yelp” logo at the top of the screen.

Gabe groans, dragging a hand down his face dramatically. “Oh no. Who showed you Yelp? Wait, why am I even asking? Charlie!” Gabe shouts toward the back of the store.

A moment later, a bright red head of hair bobs into view down the hallway leading to the kitchen and office.

“What’s shakin’, boss man?”

Coat and ever-present laptop in-hand, Charlie bounces over to the counter. She only comes in once or twice a week, since her primary job is to run their website and help with their digital organization. Mainly, Charlie makes sure Gabe hasn’t screwed up their ordering or payroll too badly, though those responsibilities are slowly being handed over to Castiel, so Charlie can focus more on running their digital advertising. She’s trying to build a social media presence for the shop, gleefully running Twitter and Instagram accounts that showcase artistic pictures of their coffee drinks while making playful, sarcastic jabs about everything from politics to one of every coffeeshop’s biggest competitors, Keurig.

“Why did you show Cassie Yelp?” Gabriel asks plaintively.

Charlie just shrugs. “He asked about online reviews.”

“Yes, I did,” Castiel cuts in. “As store manager, I have a vested interest in the feedback of our clientele, as should you, _the owner_. And like I said before, we have a problem.”

Holding up his phone he starts to read one of their most recent reviews. “‘Three stars. This place has five-star coffee, but one-star bagels. Too bad, because I really do like their iced mocha.’”

“That’s one review,” Gabriel argues, crossing his arms in front of his chest defensively.

Castiel raises an eyebrow. “This next one is a little less kind,” he continues, “’If I want overpriced frozen pastries, I’ll buy a box of Toaster Strudels and call it a day.’” Looking at Gabriel, he asks pointedly, “I thought you said ‘no one will be able to tell they’re frozen?’”

Gabe shifts guiltily where he’s seated on one of the bar-height stools at the end of the counter.

“And here’s my personal favorite,” Castiel reads on, “‘Awesome coffee. Scones taste like ass.’”

With a hefty sigh, Gabe’s head thuds down onto the counter.

“They’re right. The scones _do_ taste like ass,” he mumbles into his folded arms.

“Gabriel, you have a full industrial kitchen in the back, which is calculated into the astronomical rent you pay for this location. You are underutilizing your available resources and losing money in both rent and sales because of it.”

“But I can’t afford to hire a baker, Cassie. I can only afford _you_ because you’re doubling as manager _and_ barista and that Ruby chick quit on me with no notice.”

Climbing onto the stool next to Gabe’s, Charlie opens her laptop on the counter. “So don’t,” she says, eyes focused on her screen as she types furiously. Smiling triumphantly a moment later, she turns the computer sideways to face both Gabe and Castiel. “Just train someone who’s already in-house.”

On the screen is an ad for “ _Baking 101: Learn the basics of professional baking with local pastry chef, Missouri Moseley. Suitable for novice or experienced home bakers who are looking to refine their skills or even turn their hobby into a thriving career._ ”

“That’s not a bad idea, Bradbury,” Gabe says, voice praising, before turning to look meaningfully at Castiel, “And oh look, a volunteer.”

“Me?” Castiel asks in alarm. “Why me? I can barely boil water.”

“Hey, it was your idea. I was perfectly happy just serving up defrosted muffins and ass-scones before you came along with your glass-shattering Yelp reviews,” Gabe argues.

Cas huffs, noting the fact that, per usual, even Gabe is avoiding their bakery display case, despite the latte in his hand. The fact that his carb-loving brother won’t even eat the fudge brownies on display is a true testament to just how dire their dessert situation really is.

“Look,” Charlie cajoles, “You can at least learn the basics and hey, I bet you’ll even get to taste test each other’s stuff.”

“Maybe I _should_ be the one to sign up after all,” Gabe says musingly, eyes lighting up at the thought of consuming all that sugar.

“No, dummy.” Charlie rolls her eyes. “What I mean is, this class could be full of amateur bakers who are ‘looking to turn their hobby into a career,’” she quotes from the website. “If one of them can actually bake and is just starting out, they might be willing to work here for barista pay. We could advertise their baking and let them use the kitchen for outside baking and catering jobs to supplement their wages. Everyone wins.”

“That’s an even better idea, Charlie,” Castiel says approvingly. “Let’s hope you’re right. Otherwise, anal-flavored pastries are going to be the least of our concerns when I burn the building down.”

“Way to look on the bright side, bro,” Gabe says with a grin before taking a sip of his latte abomination and heading back to the office. Castiel grimaces and hopes that his well-meaning brother doesn’t manage to do too much damage “running” his business while not under the direct supervision of either himself or Charlie.

Gabe means well, Castiel knows that he does. And his motivations when he bought the failing coffeeshop were pure. He’d been coming to this shop for years when one of the owners became ill, his husband struggling to keep the place afloat on his own. In the end, Cesar and Jesse had decided to retire to Arizona, hoping the warm, dry desert air would be better for Jesse’s health after having suffered multiple battles with pneumonia during the harsh Kansas winters. They were considering just closing the place down, putting their small but devoted staff out of jobs when Gabe had offered to buy out their lease with the same kind of impulsivity most people limit to buying candy bars while in the supermarket checkout line.

Since then, Gabe has been struggling to keep the place out of the red. He’d introduced a new menu of coffee drinks, which based on their reviews, has been largely successful, but the switch from Cesar’s homemade baked goods to frozen ones has not been welcomed by their once-loyal customer base. This idea of Charlie’s may be their last chance to turn things around before having to sell or close shop for good.

“Soooo,” starts Charlie with faux-casualness, “how was your night last night? Anything interesting happen?”

“If you mean did the guy you apparently handed out my information to in the store contact me, yes, he did,” Castiel answers with a frown. “Charlie, you know I haven’t volunteered with the animal rescue in months, not since…everything happened and I moved in with Gabe. Why did you give him that name? It’s lucky I even saw the notification.”

“The poor guy needed help, dude. He was clearly out of his depth. Seriously, I thought he was gonna have a meltdown right there in the middle of the pet food aisle.”

Castiel finds himself fighting a small smile and he remembers D’s somewhat frantic messages from the night before. He has a feeling Charlie isn’t exaggerating in the slightest.

“Besides,” she continues with a toss of her shoulder length ginger hair, “if you’d seen him, you wouldn’t be complaining right now. Dude’s almost pretty enough for _me._ ”

“Well, that’s irrelevant, since I won’t be seeing him. I helped him survive his first night of kitten fostering, Charlie. That’s not exactly a prelude to a first date.”

“Why not?” Charlie argues, pushing aside her laptop to rest her elbows on the counter, propping up her chin with her hands. “You should tell him you need to come over and check on the kitten.” She grins. “You know, for its health.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, “I can’t do that. This guy seems to be as private online as I am. There’s no name anywhere on his profile, the only pictures are of a car, and he signed his message, ‘D.’ That doesn’t give the impression he’d welcome attempts to pry into his real life.”

Charlie sighs. “Fair point. Well, maybe he’ll come back into the pet store and I can put in a good word for you.”

“Please don’t. Whoever he is, I doubt he would appreciate the interference any more than I do,” Castiel answers bluntly.

Undeterred, Charlie just smirks as she packs up her laptop and makes her way toward the exit. “Pfft. You do appreciate me. You just don’t know it yet,” she calls as she pushes open the door to the coffeeshop, the small bell at the top of the doorway jingling merrily as she heads out into the bitter cold.

Shaking his head, Castiel pulls out his phone. Despite trying to deter Charlie’s meddling, he does still intend to check in with D this morning, to see how the kitten’s night went.

The picture of the sleeping kitten immediately draws his attention as he opens his message history with @shotgunshutshiscakehole, a little ball of orange and white fluff curled up on what looks to be a very muscular shoulder and snuggled against a lean stretch of lightly tanned neck.

Charlie’s comment about how pretty the mystery D is (and Castiel is absolutely _not_ going to acknowledge the potential euphemism there) has him focusing on the muscles evident under that black t-shirt just a little more than he might allow himself to otherwise. He can see just a trace of a five o’clock shadow where D’s neck meets his ear behind the orange fluff filling up most of the picture and imagines it might lead to a strong, scruff-covered jawline. His hair looks to be a light brown, significantly lighter than Castiel’s own dark auburn, but still too dark to be rightfully called blond.

Rolling his eyes at his own ridiculousness, Castiel scrolls on past the picture and starts a new message.

D’s response comes quickly, and Castiel tries not to be pleased by that.

Chuckling to himself, Castiel hopes D doesn’t have an issue with cat hair, because he can already tell it’s only a matter of time before this kitten has taken over his bed.

Castiel frowns as he reads D’s newest message. He has a feeling D doesn’t realize what being dropped off at the animal shelter could mean for his little charge. If so, and if he were okay with that, he surely wouldn’t have put so much effort into caring for her.

He sighs. Apparently, the man is going to make Castiel spell it out for him.

There. That’s as delicately as he can phrase it. D’s response is immediate.

Castiel looks sadly at his screen. This isn’t a pleasant part of animal rescue, knowing that no matter how many cats and kittens rescuers and fosterers help, there are still going to be so many they can’t. It’s also one Castiel feels exceptionally guilty about, given his current circumstances.

He sighs again, though he’s not surprised by D’s question.

Thanks to the two orders he has to take and prepare, it’s several minutes before Castiel can answer D’s question. He prepares the orders as quickly as he can, while still being careful to make the finished products look as neat and appetizing as possible. A little extra artistic touch can go a long way toward earning return business and he thinks his latte art is definitely showing improvement. The other day he actually made a heart that looked like a heart and not the head of a deformed penis, as Gabe had so helpfully pointed out with his first several attempts.

Finally, he bids both customers a good day and retrieves his phone from where he’d stashed it beneath the register.

Of course, Castiel thinks as he rolls his eyes. The crazy cat lady jokes. Why is it that cat enthusiasts must endure these kinds of assumptions? If someone says they like dogs, no one ever immediately assumes they’re some kind of lonely, dog-pack-owning hermit in a bathrobe.

Biting his lip, Castiel feels his cheeks warming at D’s response to his joke. He’s glad that neither his brother nor Charlie are around to ask him what’s making him blush like this. Instead, the only audience he has is Linda Tran, one of Gabe’s employees who predates his ownership of _The Sweet Bean_. She’s come from the kitchen with their newest batch of freshly defrosted pastries, which look even less appetizing to Castiel now that he’s seen their dismal Yelp reviews.

“Thanks, Linda,” he says warmly. “Is Kevin still coming in at noon?”

“He’d better be,” Linda sniffs. “He was out half the night with one of his friends who’s home visiting from college. They’d better not have been doing anything that would prevent him from being able to pull himself out of bed at the crack of mid-morning in order to be at work on time.”

“I’m sure they weren’t, Linda. Kevin’s a very responsible young man.” As much as he likes Linda and admires her ferocity as a mother (“Mama bear” doesn’t come close to describing Linda Tran. She’s more like an angry mama wolverine), Castiel worries that she’s a little too hard on Kevin. From everything he’s seen in the past two months he’s worked here, Kevin is an incredibly dedicated son, student, and employee. He’s not sure the boy even knows _how_ to fail.

“Of course he is. My Kevin is a good boy. It’s that Winchester boy I don’t trust. His hair is too long. With hair like that, he’s probably some irresponsible, pot-smoking, shiftless layabout.”

Frowning, Castiel is about to argue Linda’s very unkind assumptions about men with long hair, when the image of Gabriel and his nearly chin-length locks comes to mind. He closes his mouth. Perhaps this isn’t the point to argue when he and Linda both know that her job could be on the line in a few months’ time thanks to a long-haired, only-shifts-after-nine-AM layabout.

Instead, he looks back down at his phone to continue his conversation with D.

Figuring it’s useless to point out to D yet again that those “assholes” are in fact doing the best they can with virtually non-existent resources and that euthanasia might be kinder than freezing to death or dying of starvation or dehydration on their own, Castiel instead focuses on the other part of his answer.

Castiel shakes his head with a fond chuckle, suddenly not at all worried about the kitten’s future.

Hearing the now familiar and much anticipated notification buzz of his smartphone, Dean reaches for it eagerly. What started with CJ messaging him the information he’d promised for the pet clinic Saturday night had quickly turned into a conversation about the rest of Dean’s (and the kitten’s) day, which then morphed into a conversation about their evening plans, which quickly led to a good natured argument about which is the better zombie movie, _The Evil Dead_ or _28 Days Later._

__

__

By this point, they’ve been messaging back and forth almost constantly for the past week, Dean supplying CJ with updates on the kitten’s vet appointment and growth (and asking frantic kitten-care questions) and CJ being his usual helpful self. Dean has mostly settled into his role as temporary cat-owner however, so he needs less help in that area than he did in the beginning. Thanks to Dean sending Sam back to _Purrs and Paws_ this time, the kitten now has her own bed (which she completely ignores in favor of sleeping and sitting wherever Dean is), collar (which she adamantly refuses to wear), food dish (that she actually uses), litter box (which she _mostly_ uses) and cat toys (though she definitely prefers leaping after the blind cords and doing battle with Dean’s shoestrings).

As such, interspersed with their dwindling kitten-centric Q & As are a growing number of conversations that have nothing to do with the kitten at all. They’ve even verged hesitantly into the realms of their personal lives, though Dean notices they both seem to be keeping the details as vague as possible. He supposes he can’t blame CJ for being cautious. They’re basically strangers, after all, and it’s not like Dean’s an open book. Of course, that’s mostly because Dean’s “book” is more dime store comic than epic novel, but still.

Smartphone in hand, Dean is smiling down at the heart-eye emoji CJ sent in response to his latest kitten pic (one of the kitten hiding in Dean’s boot), when a new question occurs to him.

While he’s waiting for CJ’s reply, he suddenly feels tiny kitten claws and teeth latching onto his socked toes. “Son of a bitch,” he half-shouts as the little orange fuzzball tries to wrestle with his foot. She’s been getting much more playful over the past week, randomly attacking any body part left unprotected and jumping out at Dean from behind doors and under furniture solely, he’s convinced, to scare the ever-living piss out of him.

“C’mere you,” he grumbles, scooping up the squirming kitten and placing her on his chest where he’s lying on the sofa, before reaching under the coffee table for her favorite toy, the string from the Omaha hoody Dean had bought a year and a half ago when he dropped Sam off for freshman orientation. She’s got an entire basketful of colorful cat toys and yet this faded gray string is her favorite to play with. Dean thinks she’s just rubbing it in.

She’d finally won that string after a fierce two-day battle in which she would attempt to pull the string out of the hoody before Dean noticed. Eventually, she’d pulled the damn thing out far enough that he couldn’t get it back through the hole and he’d decided she’d earned her prize. And so the gray string became the spoils of war.

Dangling the string in front of the kitten’s batting paws, he picks his phone back up from the back of the sofa and reads CJ’s reply, hoping to learn a bit more about the mysterious cat angel.

Dean doesn’t mention that the reason it didn’t work out is because his dad drank and gambled away their profits and ended up losing his garage. Without thinking, he keeps typing.

Feeling suddenly vulnerable at what is almost certainly an overshare, he tries to deflect attention back onto CJ.

He can’t help but feel a sort of camaraderie with CJ when he reads the man’s message. Dean might be the older brother, but this place still doesn’t really feel like _his_. Dean’s never really had a place of his own. Hell, he’s never had much to call his own, period.

It takes him a moment to respond to CJ, since the kitten has apparently realized that Dean’s distracted by the glowy brick in front of his face and chooses that moment to pounce on the hand holding the string.

“Godammit!” Dean hollers as kitten teeth sink into the tender space between his second and third knuckle. “Not cool.” He chides the kitten sternly, but it doesn’t take him long to cave and start scratching her under the chin when she tilts her head at him in apparent puzzlement.

Keeping the little orange terror distracted by scratchies, Dean manages to answer CJ.

Looking around the shabby living room of his trailer, the only thing his dad left him when he finally drank himself to death aside from his 1967 Impala (which is worth far more in both money and sentimentality), Dean half-snorts. “Ain’t stellar” is certainly one way of phrasing it. “Mobile garbage heap” would be another. The trailer, though still terribly worn and outdated, is clean and livable now, but the condition it was in when he first got here…Dean shudders as he remembers the mess of liquor bottles, rotten food, and general human filth he’d cleaned out of the place. In fact, if he’d had anywhere else to go, he would have just walked away from the thing. As it was though, the debts his dad left behind alongside his two sons had claimed the garage that was their sole source of income. Thank god Sammy’s smart as a damn whip and was able to get himself a full ride to Omaha. Dean though, he certainly hadn’t earned any scholarships. He’d barely made it through high school.

He's still a little lost in thought when CJ's next message comes through. 

Dean’s eyebrows lift in surprise. Sure, he doesn’t know CJ overly well, even if they have been messaging almost non-stop for the past week, but from what Dean can tell so far, CJ's intelligent, well-spoken, and clearly very caring. It’s hard to imagine him being terrible at anything. He wonders what had the guy so nervous.

Dean’s lips quirk up at the guy’s adorable use of quotation marks. He doesn’t even know what CJ looks like and yet he can very clearly picture the man making air quotes around the words. Okay, maybe he can understand why his friend would have been nervous.

Friend. Dean considers the word. Is that what they are? He tries to remember the last time he’d made a friend outside of work and comes up empty, which doesn’t give him a very good frame of reference for judging his new relationship with the dorky internet stranger/cat rescue angel/apparent customer service manager.

He can’t help but be curious about CJ’s job. “Customer service” could be anything from retail to high-end event coordinating, to sex work, to the _Roadhouse_ , though Dean’s fairly certain he would have noticed one of his coworkers making adorable, dorky air quotes in the middle of dinner shift.

He can’t deny though, how much he’s enjoyed talking with CJ these past few days. Dean hadn’t realized just how lonely his days had grown in the time since Sam first left for school. He usually sulks for at least a full week after the kid goes back from a visit, but this time, between CJ and the kitten, he’s not had time for even half his usual brooding.

Blinking, Dean pulls himself back to the conversation as he strokes a hand down the back of a now-sleeping kitten.

Somewhat bewildered, Dean frowns as he reads CJ’s response. CJ’s about the nicest guy he’s ever met and he’s a great listener...well, reader. He lets Dean drone on and on about his day, his favorite movies, his music. And he even seems genuinely interested when he asks Dean questions. What’s not to like?

Hoping CJ will take his jab about the air mattress as the lighthearted teasing it’s meant to be, he holds his breath for a moment, wondering if he’s offended his would-be-maybe-new-internet-friend.

Dean chortles, nearly dropping the phone on the purring fur ball's head as he types out a response.

As CJ laments Dean’s “older brother” status, Dean thinks about what he said, not about his brother’s obnoxious shower habits, but about his dream job. What even is Dean’s “dream job?” For as long as he can remember, he’s been pulled one way or another. Growing up to do whatever _he_ wanted to do never really felt like a choice. He did the job in front of him and got on with it..

For a while that was his dad’s garage. It had been John’s dream to hand that garage over to Dean someday and his old man wanted that so badly that Dean couldn’t help but want to give it to him. So, he tried to make it his dream as well, but it never quite fit. If he’s honest, he’d felt more relief than sadness when they’d lost the business to John’s debt. Just because he loves working on the Impala his dad left him doesn’t mean he likes playing “guess the noise” with some yuppie’s import.

After that though, Dean wasn’t left with any more choice than before. John was gone, the garage was gone, and someone had to put food on the table for him and Sam. Thankfully, Dean had been nineteen when John died, which meant he was able to take guardianship of his younger brother. Despite Sam’s protests to the contrary, fifteen was too young to be contributing to household bills, so for a while Dean had pulled doubles with Ellen at The Roadhouse and picked up some side work at John’s old friend Bobby’s salvage yard. Once Sam’s combination of scholarships and student loans meant that his brother was pretty much provided for, he was able to drop one of the jobs.

The flier that has somehow migrated from his kitchen table to the coffee table, completely bypassing the trashcan in between, pretty much spells out why Dean had chosen _Harvelle’s_ _Roadhouse_ over _Singer Salvage_. Given the choice between something resembling his dad’s old dream for him and a kitchen…well, it hadn’t been a hard choice. And CJ was right. Even though it isn’t his dream job and even though he smells like a grease trap six days a week, Dean’s still happier behind Ellen’s grill than he ever was under the hood of any car that’s not his own Baby.

Reaching carefully for the table so as not to disturb the sleeping kitten on his chest, Dean picks up the paper and reads it over again. “Baking 101: Learn the basics of professional baking with local pastry chef, Missouri Moseley. Suitable for novice or experienced home bakers who are looking to refine their skills or even turn their hobby into a career.”

With a sigh, he pulls up the web browser on his phone, grimacing as he imagines his little brother’s shit-eating grin when he finds out that Dean signed up for the baking class after all.

Maybe though, this is his chance to make a change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: brief mentions of the possibility of kitten euthanasia due to animal shelter overcrowding and lack of resources. (This is discussed as a hypothetical only. No kittens, real or fictional, were harmed in the writing of this fic. I promise.)
> 
> I hope everyone enjoyed the chapter! We're getting so close to the other half of our two-person love triangle! What do you think of Dean's dream job? Did you have a dream job that's very different from what you ended up doing? 
> 
> From ages 5 through 12, I was convinced I was going to be a school nurse. The school nurse's office was a refuge for me in elementary school and I thought it seemed like the best job ever. I'm not a nurse, but I did get the "school" part right! We'll get some more details about Dean's dream job later on!
> 
> Next week: It looks like things might be starting to heat up for these two and—do you smell something burning?


	3. Cream butter and sugar in a large mixing bowl until light and fluffy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends!
> 
> Another Monday, another chapter!! Hopefully this story can, at the very least, make Mondays in 2020 a little less painful! Thank you so much to [EllenOfOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz) and [LadyRandomBox](https://www.instagram.com/ladyrandombox/?hl=en) for making this chapter readable! 
> 
> And thank you to all of you who shared your dream jobs and your current careers with me in the comments on last week's chapter! I love getting little glimpses into your lives and, as always, you've shown me that my readers are very cool and talented people! 💖  
> Whether you are currently in your dream job, on your way there, or doing something completely different and unexpected, all jobs are important and I'm proud of you for doing yours, especially on the days when it's hard, when you hate it, when it's the last thing you want to be doing. We don't always get to hear that often enough as grown-ups and I think we all might need to hear it a little more now than we usually do. And if your job has been impacted by the pandemic, then extra hugs and love to you. I am grateful to you for the sacrifices you've been forced to make for all of our sakes, whether that be working as an essential worker, facing increased risk of infection in your workplace, teleworking, having to alter or even scale back your business model to meet COVID guidelines, or having to stay home and sacrifice income because you were furloughed, had to close your business, or had to leave your job to care for your children.💖
> 
> Now, I believe I promised you some baking...

Smelling something burning, Dean quickly turns around, scanning the small kitchen workstation he shares with one of his fellow baking class students. Each workstation has a shared refrigerator and sink, a double oven, and two stovetops, the second of which happens to be where the smell of scorched flour and butter is coming from. White (which is, admittedly, better than black) smoke pours out of the bubbling pan on the cooktop as its wannabe-chef looks on in dismay. Dark brows furrow in apparent consternation on a face that somehow looks all the more attractive for it.

Dean has to stifle a grin at the striking chef-to-be as he jerks the smoking pan off the heat while swearing in a gravelly baritone and glaring at the ingredients spread haphazardly across his countertop as if they’ve betrayed him. Truth be told, Dean’s been tempted to offer his help to the guy several times throughout their first baking class together (and not just so he can see if the arms hidden away by that impractical long-sleeved button-down look as muscular up close as they do from a distance), but doesn’t want to come off as some asshole know-it-all.

The poor guy is clearly out of his depth, though. He’d looked increasingly alarmed as Missouri walked them through each step of preparing pâte à choux at the beginning of class. Dean had thought the dude was going to stroke out when she explained that rather than just adding a set number of eggs to the choux paste, they would instead need to watch the texture and consistency of the mixture to ensure they’d added the right amount.

“You want your paste to have a smooth, even consistency that leaves a ‘V’ on your spatula if you let it drip off. The yolks should give it a rich, light yellow shade, but if it starts to turn orange, you’ve added one too many, so be careful before you add that last egg,” Missouri warned. “If it’s got the right consistency but is still a little on the pale side, you can whisk up that last egg separately and add as much as feels right to you.”

As Dean started dicing butter and measuring flour for the beginnings of his choux paste, he’d heard muttering from the dark, tousle-haired head behind him, “I thought baking was a science, not a Bob Ross painting.” Dean snickered, but not wanting to come across as a creeper, had kept to his side of their shared workspace and tried to keep his eyes on his own cooking and not the perfectly rounded backside of the man working at the next stovetop.

Now though, he’s pretty sure he’ll be even more of an asshole if he doesn’t intervene before his kitchen-mate burns down half the building. Dean’s just finished mixing in his eggs one at a time until the mixture in his bowl turned into a smooth golden yellow paste with the consistency Missouri had explained earlier, but the glowering man on the other side of the kitchen has barely made it past the first step…boiling water.

Actually, it looks as if he’d managed to boil the water and melt the butter okay, with trouble starting when he added the flour to begin forming the paste that would have become the pâte à choux dough.

“You forgot to turn the heat down,” Dean says over the man’s frustrated muttering, trying to ignore the fact that this dude somehow makes swearing at pastry dough sound sexy as hell.

“I…oh,” comes the disgruntled response as Gravel Voice glances at Dean and then quickly looks away to turn the dial for his burner down from the high setting he’d used for boiling the water and butter to the medium-low it needs to be for cooking the flour paste. He and Dean both stare at the scorched pan, crispy brown lumps of flour sitting in far-too-little oily water, now that much of it has boiled away.

“This isn’t salvageable, is it?” Gravel Voice asks Dean sadly, finally drawing his eyes up from the choux-disaster in front of them and _holy shit_ are those eyes blue. Trying desperately to forget the fact that he’s always been an absolute sucker for blue eyes (and that’s just regular blue eyes, not eyes that look like they should be surrounded by palm trees and untouched, white-sand beaches), Dean clears his throat.

“Probably not if you actually plan to eat it later, but uh, mine’s finished, so if we work together, we can get your paste remade before it’s time to go on to the next step.” The words come out in a rush and Dean focuses every bit of his mental energy on _not_ blushing like the hopeless idiot he is.

“Oh.” Oasis eyes widen. “That’s very kind, but you don’t have to…”

“Hey, it’s no problem, really. We’re supposed to taste one another’s final product, so consider it an act of self-preservation.”

Dean’s joke startles a laugh out of Blue Eyes, who gestures to his countertop.

“Well, when you put it like that, I suppose it would be horribly rude of me to refuse your help and condemn you to my cooking. I’m Castiel.” Castiel stretches out his hand for Dean to shake.

“Dean,” he answers with a grin, shaking hands and making his way over to the cutting board, where he starts dicing up more butter while Cas measures out new flour for the choux.

Dean tries not to back-seat-bake _too_ much, but he can’t help but cut in at a few crucial points, if for no other reason than to keep them from ruining another of the cooking class’ pans.

“Whoa, Cas. Good job remembering to turn the heat down, but you’re still gonna want to move the pan to another burner before you add the flour, to give this one a chance to cool down.”

His kitchen-mate arches an eyebrow, but he seems more amused than put out as he follows Dean’s advice. “Cas?”

“Hey, it’s not my fault your name’s such a mouthful. By the time I’d gotten the whole thing out, your paste would have been ruined again.”

“Unfortunately, we can’t all be blessed with straightforward, single-syllable names. Though,” he tilts his head consideringly. “’Cas’ is actually one of the better nicknames I’ve been christened with. I think I like it.”

“Oh yeah? What’s the worst then?”

“Cassie. Hands down. It’s what most of my family calls me. It was cute when I was four, but it’s been a source of contention ever since.”

“Ooh,” Dean hisses, “Yeah. That’s rough. My first girlfriend was named Cassie, so you definitely don’t need to worry about me calling you that. Don’t need any reminders there _._ Cas it is.”

Dean watches Cas’ face carefully at that revelation and is fairly certain he’s not imagining the hint of disappointment when he mentions Cassie’s name.

“Ah. I take it things didn’t end well?”

“Not so much,” Dean elaborates casually. “She noped the fuck out when she found out I was bi.”

Cas’ eyebrows raise slightly before he brings them back under his control and the look of disappointment is replaced by something half-relieved and half-intrigued. Okay, so announcing his sexuality by way of ex-girlfriend is definitely not the smoothest move Dean’s ever pulled, but in his defense, he is _really_ out of practice. Besides, it’s not like he has any intention of hooking up with the guy he has to cook beside for the next twelve weeks. It’s just nice to be appreciated is all, even if it’s not going anywhere…and to know he won’t get throat punched for returning said appreciation, of course.

“I’m sorry to hear that. People can be very unkind.”

“Eh, we were seventeen,” Dean explains with a wave. “Just kids. And kids are assholes. Hopefully she’s grown out of it. Hey, your paste looks good. I think it’s time to switch it to the mixing bowl and start beating in the eggs.”

After getting him started, Dean leaves Cas carefully adding one egg at a time as instructed and brings his own dough over to Cas’ side of the workstation, so they can keep working side-by-side.

“I suppose you don’t have to worry about people shortening your name,” Cas comments, kindly shifting the conversation away from Dean’s overshare and back to their previous topic.

“You’d think,” Dean says with a snort, “but some people still try. I’ve had a few try and call me ‘Dee,’ but I hate it.”

Cas fumbles the egg he’s about to crack, ending up smashing it into the side of the mixing bowl with a wet crunch instead of the gentle tap Dean’s sure he was aiming for.

“That’s…unfortunate,” he says as he picks bits of eggshell out of his choux-paste and Dean’s not sure if he’s talking about the nickname Jo and Sam used to tease him with or his current egg situation.

Once Cas pronounces his choux-paste “as Bob Ross yellow as it’s going to get,” Dean sets him to work lining two baking sheets with parchment paper as he prepares their piping bags.

“You seem to have done this before,” Cas comments as he watches Dean pour his mixture into one of the piping bags, before carefully copying him.

“Uh, yeah. I grew up baking with my mom. She loved it. Don’t think I’ve ever made pâte à choux before, but I’ve made puff pastry and piped icing and stuff.” He glances at Cas’ piping bag as he sets down his mixing bowl. “Now hold the bag with the tip up, like this,” Dean demonstrates, “and squeeze all the air out.”

He then shows Cas how to carefully pipe the little circles of batter that will hopefully bake into light and fluffy pastry puffs. It takes Cas several false starts to get the hang of piping, including a trapped air incident that results in choux-spatter all over his baking sheet and requires a fresh sheet of parchment paper. When he finally finishes, he glares between his choux-blobs of various sizes and shapes, some looking distinctly more oblong than round, and Dean’s evenly spaced, perfectly circular dollops.

Dean nudges him. “Don’t worry about it. Practice makes perfect.”

“I’ve never baked before,” Cas points out needlessly.

“You don’t say?” Dean answers, unsuccessfully fighting a grin.

Cas narrows his eyes and Dean’s grin widens.

“If you aren’t really a beginner, why are you taking a ‘Baking One-oh-one’ course?” he asks and Dean shrugs sheepishly.

He’s about to respond when Missouri calls out, “Looking good, bakers. Now before you put those puffs in the oven, don’t forget to brush your choux-paste with a _dorure_. You can use water or milk for your dorure, but whichever you choose, make sure you mix it thoroughly so those puffs will come out a nice, even golden-brown. Half of professional baking is presentation.”

“ _That’s_ why,” Dean says to Cas, nodding toward Missouri. “Because fancy-ass chefs have to use words like _dorure_ instead of just calling it an egg-wash. I might know some of the basics, but I don’t know all the professional terminology. Or all the science behind it,” he adds as Missouri launches into an explanation of how the three-step baking process is going to cause the puffs to rise, even without use of a leavening agent.

“Mmm,” Cas hums in acknowledgement as Missouri describes how the high heat of the oven will cause the liquid in their paste to quickly evaporate, the resulting steam bubbling up and forcing the pastry to rise.

They place their baking sheets into the double oven, Cas’ tray going on top, while Dean slides his into the bottom and resolutely does _not_ smirk and blush at any and all lame baking euphemisms, because he is a _grown-up_ , thank you very much.

They chat idly as they clean their workstations and wait for their first timer to beep, at which point they’ll drop the temperature down from 425°F to 375, so the pastries can finish baking without burning from the high heat.

They work companionably, splitting the clean-up duties before tackling the dishes together. Cas washes their pans and mixing bowls (the burnt pan takes a bit of elbow grease, but does eventually return to its previously un-scorched state) while Dean dries, then they each return their dishes to their respective cabinets on either side of the miniature kitchen.

When the second timer beeps, Cas drops their oven temperatures further, to 300°F, so the pastries can finish drying out and crisping up.

“Now, don’t be too disappointed if you don’t end up with the perfect pâte à choux your first time out of the gate,” Missouri counsels them. “This class isn’t just about measuring out ingredients and following a recipe. You’re here to learn how to rely on your senses and develop your baker’s intuition. To learn why and how the steps in a recipe come together to produce something new and delicious instead of just assuming that they will. Pâte à choux is the perfect pastry to begin teaching you that, but it will take time and practice to hone your sixth sense in the kitchen. And you’ll definitely get another chance to practice with this dish, since next class we’ll be making more pâte à choux and combining it with pastry cream, to make delicate crème puffs and elegant eclairs.”

Dean thinks that’s probably sage advice, as they remove their baking sheets from the oven and begin using toothpicks to poke holes in the pastries, allowing the remaining pent-up steam to vent. Cas is looking more than a little discouraged as he takes in the flat pâte patties on his baking sheet and compares them to Dean’s pristine puffs.

Dean bites a lip to hold in his chuckle at his kitchen-mate’s disgruntled expression. He looks personally offended by the pastries in front of him, as if they deliberately refused to rise just to make him look bad. But damn, Dean would deflate too under a look like that.

Hoping that Cas’ puffs taste better than they look, Dean takes a deep breath and claps the man on the shoulder before picking up a cooling disc.

“Dean, you really don’t have to…” Cas starts, but Dean’s already popping the pastry into his mouth.

“I have no idea what you did that kept them from rising, but they actually don’t taste half bad,” Dean says honestly, around a mouthful of pastry. “A little chewy, but still tasty.”

Cas frowns disbelievingly, but doesn’t argue. Instead, he picks up a puff from Dean’s tray and takes a careful bite.

“This is delicious, Dean. I can’t wait to taste it with the addition of pastry cream. You definitely aren’t a beginner.”

Dean blushes a bit at the praise, but resists the urge to brush it off as Cas helps himself to another puff. He’s not sure what’s going through the other man’s head as he watches Dean thoughtfully, but Dean can feel his resolve to _not_ jump into bed with his hot classmate already crumbling. He does decide, however, that he at least needs to wait until the end of their class, that way they aren’t trapped here together if things don’t work out. 

Cas licks choux-crumbs from his fingertips, humming happily.

It’s going to be a long twelve weeks.

Letting himself into his brother’s apartment, Castiel stretches tiredly, feeling the stray choux-paste that had missed his white class apron stretch and crackle on the sleeve of his button-down. Perhaps this wasn’t the most practical shirt for baking, but he really hadn’t known what to wear. At the shop, most of the staff wear black t-shirts underneath neon green or pink aprons emblazoned with the Sweet Bean logo. As store manager, Castiel wears the apron, but with a solid black button down underneath. He figured he would dress similarly for the class, since these are the clothes he’ll theoretically be baking in for work. _Very_ theoretically, if today’s class is anything to go by.

Castiel feels only slightly vindicated that he’s turned out to be just as much of a baking disaster as he’d anticipated. Mostly, he’s too busy feeling equal parts exhausted and embarrassed over his hopeless culinary display in front of his incredibly attractive kitchen-mate.

_Dean._

Castiel tosses his keys onto the stand Gabe keeps next to the door just for this purpose, not that he ever remembers to use it himself. The number of times Castiel has watched his brother search the entire apartment for his keys, only to find them somewhere completely unexpected (the freezer, under the sofa, in the shower, and _still in the door_ , to name a few) would be astounding if it were anyone but Gabe. With Gabe, however, the unexpected is…well, expected.

Shoes squeaking on the shiny hardwood, Castiel sets his carryout bag on the large granite-topped island that takes the place of a dining room table and divides the kitchen from the open living space. Gabriel’s apartment isn’t overly large, but what it lacks in size, it makes up for in high-end appliances and décor. It’s fortunate for Gabe that the coffee shop (which is barely breaking even at the moment) isn’t his only source of income. His brother also owns a small chain of ice cream shops that have been successful enough to expand throughout the Sioux Falls area and several surrounding towns, serving up freshly made ice cream created from local dairy sources and natural ingredients. Strawberry ice cream with real chunks of strawberry, raspberry cheesecake with fresh raspberries and swirls of creamy goat cheese, and a honey vanilla made with local honey (Castiel’s personal favorite) are a few of his big sellers.

Looking around the empty apartment, Castiel wonders if his brother is actually at one of his ice cream shops now or if he’s on a date. Never mind that it’s a Tuesday. Gabe has never understood why people try to relegate romance and (more accurately) sex to the weekends. Of course, Gabe has also never had a job that requires him to wake up before nine A.M.

Sitting down at one of the bright red bar stools that provide a splash of color against the dark wood and white granite, Castiel pulls his Greek salad out of the brown paper bag. After helping himself to several of Dean’s delicious pastries, he’d decided he better stick to something light and healthy for dinner, especially since he’s eating much later than he’s accustomed to. Getting up at four in order to make it to the coffee shop by five every morning means that dinner and bed are usually much earlier for him than most adults in their late twenties. A class that runs from five to eight in the evenings is great for the nine-to-five crowd, but definitely isn’t the most convenient for his schedule.

However, he thinks as he takes his first bite of kalamata olive and red onion, it just might pay off in the long run. He can’t help but remember how fluidly Dean moved around their shared kitchen space, and not just because of how damn good he looked doing it. And he certainly did look _good._ Trying to calm his nerves while secreting glances at the baker’s backside as he worked is almost certainly why Castiel ended up burning his own choux-mixture to begin with. It’s hard to feel too sorry about that, however, when it’s what brought Dean over to him.

In addition to strong, broad shoulders and bow legs that immediately filled Castiel’s head with cowboy fantasies he never even knew he had, Dean possesses stunning green eyes, long, luxurious lashes and full pouty lips that have _no business_ being attached to a face with such a strong, masculine jawline. Castiel had barely been able to look him in the face when Dean appeared at his side, prompting him to turn the heat down on his cooktop. It was like looking into the sun. And Dean’s later revelation that he’s bisexual certainly hadn’t helped quell Castiel’s attraction.

Shaking himself as he finishes the last few bites of his salad, Castiel refocuses on what is actually _important_ about his interactions with Dean this evening. The man can _bake_. True, they’ve only had one class so far, but the ease with which Dean moved around their workstation and the way he instinctively seemed to know when something was the right temperature, or that the puffs needed just another minute to finish browning, spoke to far more baking experience than the man was letting on.

Plus, he was easy to work with, easy to be around. Dean had directed him kindly and effortlessly, never making Castiel feel bad about his subpar skills, easily dividing their labor, and creating an efficient workflow between the two of them. Those are skills that would be an asset in any workplace and would be especially helpful when integrating a new business component into an existing model.

Castiel will have to watch Dean carefully ( _professionally_ speaking, of course) over these next few weeks, but he’s got a strong feeling he’s not going to be any less impressed with Dean’s assets as time goes on. Hiring Dean seems like a much better plan than the absolutely insane idea that Castiel could ever bake anything fit to sell at _The Sweet Bean_.

Placing his take-out trash in the bin, Castiel sighs. He’s getting ahead of himself. Of course, none of this matters if Dean isn’t actually looking to start a career in baking. For all Castiel knows, he may already have his own booming business, or maybe he already bakes for a local restaurant and just wanted to learn more of the professional jargon of his trade, as he demonstrated with the “dorure.” And that’s not to mention the other problem, that if Castiel hires Dean, he’ll have to let go of his burgeoning fantasies of pretty, bow-legged cowboys waking up in his…ahem. Well. Perhaps he’s putting the cart ahead of the horse there as well. It’s not like he could bring Dean home to the air mattress in his brother’s living room anyways. He’s better off hiring Dean and saving his current place of business, so that maybe someday he’ll be able to afford an apartment—and bed—of his own again.

Flopping down on the white sofa that’s been shoved to the back wall of the living room to make space for the full-size air mattress, Castiel finally pulls his phone out of his pocket, face lighting up with a tired smile as he sees a waiting message from D. He grins for a moment, remembering Dean talking about how he hates when people shorten his name that way. He wonders idly what “D” might stand for. David? Daniel? Denny? He frowns at that last one. He’s not sure why, but he hopes it’s not Denny. That name just doesn’t seem to set right with him for some reason.

Looking down at the message from D, he finds himself smiling again.

As he types out his response, Castiel wonders what D’s change is, but he doesn’t feel like they’re at a point where he can ask. They’ve both been pretty vague regarding the day-to-day details of their lives and work, even though Castiel can now name D’s three favorite movies, knows that his favorite film genre is horror, his favorite author is Vonnegut, and that he loves classic rock, especially Led Zeppelin.

He’s more than a little surprised to discover that he and D, someone who had been a complete stranger just a couple of weeks ago and is still such a mystery in so many ways—starting with what he even looks like—have become fast friends. It’s undeniable though. Though D still talks about the kitten he’s fostering frequently, it’s more to share funny stories of the “little fuzzball’s” antics than to ask about how to care for her.

His phone buzzes again.

Castiel immediately winces at the cliched expression. Very smooth, Novak. He’s sure that’s just the kind of meaningless platitude his friend is looking for.

He thinks about his abysmal adventures in baking this evening and wonders if he should share them with D. His friend might get a good laugh about Castiel’s kitchen foibles. Dean certainly did, though he tried to hide it and Castiel could tell the man was laughing _with_ him more than _at_ him. Dean seems like one of those people who just naturally includes everyone in the joke, making sure no one feels left out or singled out. One more check in the “convince the cowboy-baker to let himself be hired” column.

Castiel blinks. Was…was that a flirtation? Is D flirting with him? He takes a moment to parse out how he feels about that and surprisingly, finds that he doesn’t mind. Maybe it’s having spent the evening making a fool of himself in the presence of someone as attractive as Dean, but the thought that someone actually finds Castiel worthy of flirting with feels rather nice.

He must be taking too long to respond though, judging by the sudden flurry of messages appearing in succession on his screen.

As quickly as he can, Castiel types out a response to quell D’s spiraling. He bites his lip, wondering what D will make of it.

Castiel rolls his eyes. He types out his response, hitting send after each one to emphasize his points.

It takes D a moment to type back and Castiel starts to get nervous. What if D hadn’t actually intended his words as a flirtation and his comment meant that he thought Castiel _should_ feel offended that another _man_ was flirting with him? It would be terribly disappointing to learn that the man he thought was becoming a friend is a homophobic asshole.

His stomach twists uncomfortably as his phone buzzes with D’s response.

Castiel feels equal parts relieved and disappointed. So D isn’t a homophobe, but his flirtation wasn’t necessarily directed at Castiel either. Just a reflexive response. It makes sense. What had he expected? That D would be interested in hitting on some “strange guy on the internet?” They don’t even know one another’s real names. Resigning himself to the fact that he’s apparently _not_ charming enough in text to spark that kind of interest, he types out his reply.

Forgetting his momentary disappointment, Castiel laughs aloud before replying.

Castiel chuckles again, shaking his head to himself. Charmed by D’s embarrassed flirting and somehow comforted by the fact that he’s not the only one who has managed to make himself feel foolish tonight, he’s still grinning to himself as he changes out of his flour-coated clothes and collapses onto his blow-up bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed our boys meeting and mixing things up in the kitchen! I sincerely apologize for the lack of kitten adorableness in this chapter. She'll be back with much cuteness next week though, I promise!
> 
> In the mean time though, I hope you enjoyed that cute kitten scene divider by [LadyRandomBox](https://www.instagram.com/ladyrandombox/?hl=en)! For any who didn't notice, that's the pic Dean sent CJ in Chapter 2! 😉
> 
> I hope I didn't butcher the baking scene too badly. For a look at pâte à choux and how to make it, check out [this article](https://www.thekitchn.com/baking-school-day-2-pate-a-choux-222480) from _thekitchn.com_. 
> 
> Tune in next week for more baking, more Dean/Cas, and more kitten!! Also, don't know about you, but I'm really getting tired of referring to her as "kitten." Any guesses on names for this little lady? 😉


	4. Mix in eggs, one at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Monday, loves!
> 
> Thank you for all of the lovely comments and hilarious baking disaster stories you shared last week. We also had a lot of really great kitten-name guesses, but only one person guessed correctly. Congratulations Aurora_Sleeps_In on your excellent guess! Of course, Aurora guessed 6 different names and I'm not telling which is the right one. 😂
> 
> Thank you, as always, to my dear friend and beta, [EllenOfOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz)! She regularly saves you all from my horrible spelling and mismatched words. 
> 
> And in addition to the super cute (and boy is this one cute) scene divider, there's another piece of artwork from the lovely and brilliant [LadyRandomBox](https://www.instagram.com/ladyrandombox/?hl=en)! This is the piece that started it all, folks and I have been waiting oh-so-impatiently to share it with you all! Thanks so much, L! 💖  
> Please let her know how much you love it in the comments! And then head on over to her [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/ladyrandombox/?hl=en) and shower her with love there too!
> 
> Enjoy!

Head nodding along (and hips swaying, so sue him) to ZZ Top on the boombox (yes, he owns an honest-to-god boombox, thanks to a yard sale two summers ago that was basically an early 90s time capsule), Dean carefully measures out ingredients for the buttercream frosting he’ll use to decorate the cooling orange-vanilla cupcakes on the countertop. According to Missouri, a lot of professional bakers use food scales to get more accurate measurements, but Dean has to make do with his mom’s old dinged up metal measuring cups and honestly, he wouldn’t change that bit. He never feels closer to his mom than when he’s using these battered old tin cups. He can almost remember the feel of her hands over his as she taught him how to scoop and level each cup of flour.

He’s halfway through his fourth week of baking classes and the week’s theme is butter. Tuesday’s lesson was all about the importance of butter in baking and Missouri had told them at the end of class that on Thursday they’d be learning about six types of buttercream frosting. They’ll only be preparing one, though—swiss meringue buttercream—since apparently it’s the kind used most frequently in professional baking.

Sugar measured out (granulated, not powdered like the icing he learned how to make under the careful guidance of Mary Winchester), Dean adds his egg whites and begins whisking the ingredients together by hand as a pan of water comes to a simmer on the stovetop.

Dean hadn’t even known there _were_ that many kinds of buttercream, though at least now he understands why they’d spent an entire class last week on meringue. He’d grown up making what was apparently _American_ buttercream with his mom and like most Americans with most things, had obliviously assumed that was the only kind. Apparently, not only is American buttercream far from the only buttercream, it’s also far from the best. There’s an irony there Dean tries not to think about too hard.

“B-b-b-b-b-b-bad. B-b-b-b-b-buh-bad,” he sings quietly as he sets the entire glass mixing bowl on top of the pan. He continues to whisk the eggs and sugar together until the sticky mixture thins out and starts to froth.

Since he’s never made swiss meringue buttercream before, Dean figured a little practice before tomorrow’s class couldn’t hurt. He just wants to get a feel for the recipe so he can focus fully on Missouri’s lesson tomorrow, he tells himself. That’s all. The only reason. This has absolutely nothing to do with wanting to impress a certain blue-eyed baking disaster. Though it is hard to imagine disappointing the guy when he keeps shooting Dean awed looks during every class, as if Dean’s some kind of legitimate baker, and not just a line cook with what some, like his father, would consider a far too feminine side hobby.

Plugging in his trusty hand mixer, Dean smiles to himself as he recalls Cas’ expression when he tried Dean’s cheese soufflé last week. Okay, maybe getting Cas to make those sounds again is another reason Dean’s spending his only day off practicing his buttercream skills. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying someone appreciating his baking, after all.

In class, he’d used a stand mixer to whip up the meringue for his soufflé, but those are way out of Dean’s price range right now. Maybe he’ll start keeping an eye out for a secondhand one once the spring yard sales start up.

When he’s able to dip his finger into the hot liquid without it coming away with a grainy sugar-feel, Dean takes the bowl off the steaming pan and transfers the meringue base into a larger bowl. Using the whisk attachment for his hand mixer, he cradles his mixing bowl in one arm, dancing around the kitchen while he mixes the meringue with the other.

“Every girl’s crazy ‘bout a sharp dressed ma-an,” Dean belts out loud and off-tune as he turns, the frilly pink apron Sam bought him as a gag gift flaring out around his hips. Joke’s on Sam, because Dean looks fucking killer in this apron.

As he spins (because full grown men definitely do not _twirl_ ) around the kitchen, his thoughts wander back to his classmate. Cas himself has continued to be hilariously hopeless in the kitchen, even with Dean’s attempts to help. His pastry cream hadn’t turned out _too_ bad during their second class, though it was a bit grainy and the pâte à choux for his éclairs came out pretty flat again. His miniature soufflés during week two had all fallen in the oven though and Dean would rather not think about the meringue incident.

Cas hadn’t seemed to understand why Dean started calling him “Soufflé Girl” at the end of that week, which was a bit of a disappointment. He supposes not everyone can be as big of a pop culture nerd as he is, though. Well, except for maybe CJ. In addition to _Doctor Who_ , they’ve covered zombie flicks and the great _Star Wars_ vs. _Star Trek_ debate, with Dean landing firmly on the _Wars_ side and CJ stubbornly maintaining that _Trek_ is both far more scientifically accurate and has a much tighter plotline. He was less than impressed with Dean’s counterargument of “but _Han._ ”

Surprisingly though, their most heated debate so far has been Spike vs. Angel. Dean’s always had a soft spot for the soulless vampire who finds himself falling in love with a human, but CJ had argued passionately that Angel is the deeper character, tormented by his human emotions in his struggle to overcome the wrongs of his past and do right by the person he loves most. Plus…David Boreanaz, an argument Dean couldn’t really refute. That intense Angel stare is really something.

It turns out CJ is a huge _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ fan. The dude even listens to a podcast about the show, _Buffering the Vampire Slayer,_ which somehow doesn’t surprise Dean at all. His friend seems like exactly the kind of nerd who would search out and listen to podcasts about TV shows that have been off-air for more than a decade.

He smiles fondly as he switches arms and continues whipping up his meringue. Yeah, he really needs that stand mixer.

When it comes to _Doctor Who_ , he knows that Ten is CJ’s Doctor, though Dean has always favored Eleven. The way Matt Smith can go from goofy, lovable dork to stone cold means-justifying badass is beyond impressive. They’d actually had that conversation the night before the soufflé class. He bets CJ would have found his Soufflé Girl joke hilarious, but for some reason, Dean has been hesitant to tell him about his baking class.

Meringue finally (blessedly, for Dean’s tired arms) forming the stiff peaks that lets him know it’s ready, Dean sets the bowl back on the counter and trades the whisk for his regular beaters before dropping in one tablespoon-sized chunk of butter at a time, mixing in between.

It’s not that he doesn’t think CJ would be supportive, far from it. Dean’s just a little embarrassed that his “big change” is taking a beginner level baking course. Plus, he’s not even sure that he’s actually going to _do_ anything with his new skills after finishing the class. At the end of the day, he’s still just a line cook, except now he’s a line cook who can describe the greasy-spoon entrees he serves up with fancy French words. Plus, there’s Cas. It’s hard for Dean to talk about baking class without thinking about Cas and for some reason the thought of talking to CJ about Cas makes him feel uncomfortably guilty.

He knows it’s stupid, because it’s not like he actually has a shot at anything with either guy. CJ has clearly described them as “friends” and even politely bowed out of his chance to flirt back with Dean, and though Dean wondered at first about the way Cas looks at him sometimes, the man hasn’t given even the most subtle of indications that he’d like to see Dean outside of class.

Still though, it feels like a dick move to flirt with CJ one minute and then gush about the cute boy in class the next, so Dean keeps his teenage crush to himself and waits for it to pass.

Once all the butter is mixed in, he adds the vanilla and salt and gives it a final go with the mixer. Dipping in a clean finger, Dean takes a taste of his freshly made swiss meringue buttercream and groans appreciatively. Though American buttercream is definitely sweeter, he agrees with Missouri that the Swiss version is creamier and smoother. It’s got a denser, more luxurious texture than the light, grainy, and supersweet icing that he’s more accustomed to. He also realizes that _this_ is the difference between the icing on grocery store cakes he’s familiar with from childhood birthday parties and the higher-end wedding cakes he’s tasted as an adult.

He’s suddenly extra-grateful to CJ for unintentionally convincing him to take this class. He never would have stood a chance at turning his baking into something profitable without this new knowledge. In fact, as he uses his newly purchased piping bag to layer (slightly wobbly) swirls of icing on top of each cupcake, Dean thinks maybe he should start looking into the other baking courses their community college offers. He’s pretty there’s a follow-up to this one specifically on cakes and cake decorating.

Cupcakes iced, Dean leaves them to sit on the countertop as he cleans up the kitchen. Being a “clean as you go” kind of cook, the mess isn’t too bad and it’s not long before he’s drying the last mixing bowl by hand, a dishwasher being one of the many modern creature-comforts his dad’s old trailer lacks. That’s fine, though. Dean actually finds the process of hand-washing dishes soothing. Plus, it’s another activity he used to share with his mom. He’s enjoyed sharing it with Cas at the end of each baking class. There’s a casual intimacy in washing dishes together that Dean has missed.

Reaching up to stow the mixing bowl away in the cabinet next to the sink, he spies a rubber spatula that somehow missed his kitchen once-over. Dean turns, picking up the icing-covered kitchen utensil, only to find himself staring at an equally icing-covered kitten.

“Son of a bitch!”

White icing paw prints cover Dean’s countertop, matching paw-shaped depressions in several of his freshly iced cupcakes. Dean’s stringless Omaha hoody hanging askew from one of the stools on the other side of the peninsula countertop tells the story of how the kitten climbed her way to confectionary conquest.

Over the past few weeks, she’s become increasingly playful…if playful is the right word for a goddamn destructive domestic terrorist who thrives on causing chaos and making Dean’s life more difficult in a thousand tiny ways.

In addition to her sneak attacks, which _still_ manage to scare the hell out of Dean every damn time, she’s also taken to climbing everything she can find (it’s a good thing his sofa was already a secondhand piece of crap), knocking things off of end tables, and stealing and hiding whatever of Dean’s belongings are small enough for her to carry. Fortunately, her hiding spots are fairly predictable. Dean’s gotten used to searching under the couch for his keys and sunglasses. Of course, the first time this happened and he couldn’t find said sunglasses, driving to work with the sun reflecting off their fresh, mid-March snowfall had nearly blinded him.

He’d carefully relocated the pictures of Sam and their parents (a happy one from well before his mom got sick) from a living room end table to the top of his dresser, which had been one of the few places in the trailer the kitten seemed unable to reach, along with the kitchen table and countertops.

Until now.

Dean glares at the sugar-coated kitten, still gripping the spatula in one of the hands currently fisted on his hips. The kitten tilts her head in response, blue eyes meeting Dean’s calmly, a blob of buttercream coating one ear. She has significantly more white markings across her orange fur than she did before and one unfortunate cupcake lies crumbled on its side, clearly the victim of a kitten pouncing.

“Mrow?”

Despite himself, Dean finds his lips fighting to twitch upward in a grin. He manages to stave it off until the kitten lets out a sudden, adorable sneeze.

Dropping his arms, Dean chuckles as he sets down the spatula and dampens a clean dish cloth to begin round two of kitchen clean-up, beginning with de-icing the kitten before she can eat too much of the buttercream, which can’t be good for her. She’s been fully weaned for a couple of weeks now, but Dean remembers CJ telling him quite clearly how bad dairy is for cats. In fact, he should probably check with CJ in a minute, just to make sure she’s really okay.

“Alright, alright. C’mere, Cupcake,” he coos as he picks her up.

Dean freezes.

Crap.

Did he just name the kitten?

He can’t have _named_ the kitten.

Sure, he’d taken an abandoned kitten in for the night. Who wouldn’t? He would have had to have been a monster to let the poor little thing freeze to death.

And _of course_ , he had let the kitten stay when he learned that dropping her at a shelter before she was weaned was practically a death sentence. See: _not_ a monster.

It was by _necessity_ that he’d bought her a litter box, a cat bed, matching food and water dishes, a scratching post, and half the cat toys _Purrs & Paws _ had to offer. That just made sense. Most of that stuff was meant to keep the little orange asshole (heh, first time he’s said that about someone _not_ holding a political office), from destroying his house.

And if she ended up ignoring the cat bed completely in favor of curling up on Dean’s bed behind his knee or in the crook of his neck? Well, that couldn’t really be helped. She was going to jump up there as soon as he was asleep anyways. He might as well just let them both get comfortable from the get-go.

And _maybe_ he’d been procrastinating on taking her to the shelter since she’d weaned onto solid food, but hey, he didn’t want her going to just anyone. With the kind of limited resources CJ said the shelter has, they probably can’t be too choosy about who they let adopt. He figured when the time was right, he’d let CJ and his cat rescue buddies find a good home for her.

Despite all of the above, however, there was one thing Dean _hadn’t_ done. One thing he _refused_ to do. He hadn’t given the kitten a name. Names are permanent. Names imply belonging.

Dean sighs.

Shit. He’s named the kitten.

Pulling out his phone, he opens a message to CJ.

It looks like Cupcake the kitten is here to stay.

Castiel wipes floury hands on his apron, frowning down at the pâte brisée that’s _already_ falling apart, before he’s even gotten it rolled out and into the pan. Glancing to his right, he can see Dean’s perfectly smooth dough stretching thinner and thinner as muscled forearms methodically press the rolling pin over it, spreading the dough into a smooth, even circle that will fold neatly into the waiting glass pie plate.

The steady movements are somewhat hypnotizing. This is obviously a recipe Dean is familiar with, even if he’d never called it by this name before. His impish green eyes had been positively sparkling last week when Missouri had reminded them which dish came next on their agenda, though he’d snorted at the fancy French moniker.

“You don’t approve?” Cas had asked, quirking a small grin at his kitchen-mate. He’s grown both accustomed to and quite fond of Dean’s general disdain for the same “fancy baking talk” he claimed he took this class to learn.

“You don’t need to fancy up pie, Cas,” Dean had explained. “Part of what makes pie so good is its simplicity. Just wait till you try my salted caramel apple.”

Castiel had arched an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound ‘simple’ to me, Dean. Besides, isn’t our recipe for plain apple pie? Where are you going to get the caramel?”

“I’ll make it,” Dean had answered with a shrug, “Homemade caramel ain’t no big thang. Just some sugar and heavy cream. We have plenty of sugar here and I’ll bring my own cream.”

“Is that allowed?” Castiel had asked curiously.

“What can I say, Cas? I’m a rebel.” Dean’s answering wink had nearly brought him to his knees, despite his determination _not_ to let himself become enamored with the gorgeous man. With each passing week, Castiel has become more and more certain that he must have Dean. Well, that _The Sweet Bean_ must have Dean. In an entirely professional capacity. Of course.

After today, there are only two classes left. If he’s going to make Dean a job offer, he’d better do it soon. They still keep most of their conversations focused on their baking, rarely diverging into anything personal, but by this point they’ve talked enough for Castiel to know that Dean’s currently working as a line cook at _Harvelle’s Roadhouse_ , a popular local restaurant that Castiel knows of, but hasn’t visited personally. Dean described it as a “real hole-in-the-wall kind of place,” but he said it so fondly that Castiel thinks that must be a compliment.

For today’s class, Dean had done exactly as he said he would, bringing his own unopened container of heavy cream. While waiting for their freshly mixed pie dough to chill enough for rolling (according to both Missouri and Dean, keeping the butter in the dough from melting completely is essential to ending up with a crust that’s flaky and not tough), Dean had completely ignored the recipe the rest of the class was following to make the apple filling for their pies, instead following one that he clearly knows by heart. In the amount of time it had taken Cas to stumble through his own recipe, Dean had made not only apple filling, but a homemade salted caramel sauce that smelled divine. The wafting smell of caramel had attracted attention from several neighboring stations and from their instructor herself, who had raised an eyebrow at Dean’s minor rebellion before tasting his caramel sauce and pie filling and widening both eyes in wonder.

“Now _that’s_ a dish worthy of a ‘fancy-pants French name,’” she’d commented with a pointed look that set Dean flushing prettily from his eyebrows to the neckline of his black t-shirt. Castiel isn’t even sure how Missouri heard their earlier conversation, but she at least looks more amused than irritated at the slight. “I certainly hope you’re planning to join me for more classes, Sugar,” she’d said warmly to the still-blushing Dean. “Talent like this deserves to be nurtured.”

Looking again at his hopeless crust, Castiel also recalls Missouri’s warning that, like several of the other recipes they’ve learned in this class, pâte brisée can be deceptively tricky, despite appearing fairly straightforward on paper. He’s not sure what he’s done, but while Dean’s dough is thin and sleek-looking, his own is thick, uneven, and keeps cracking when he tries to roll it out.

He lets out a perturbed huff and hears an answering chuckle next to him.

He looks sideways at his kitchen-mate, lifting an eyebrow in question.

“You’re using too much flour,” Dean says in reply, without taking his eyes off the dough that he’s now carefully settling into the pie tin. Glancing down at the small piles of flour dotting his workstation and covering his hands and apron, Castiel thinks there’s a good chance Dean is right.

“But when I used _less_ flour, it was sticking to the rolling pin,” he pouts.

Crust now trimmed, Dean glances up at Castiel and quirks a grin. “Because you used too much water.”

Castiel lets out another frustrated huff and Dean chuckles fondly as his talented fingers make quick work of pinching the outer edges of the crust into an impressively even fluted design. If Castiel isn’t careful, he’s going to develop a hand kink from watching Dean in the kitchen. Hell, who’s he kidding? That ship has probably already sailed, his newly established kink waving bon voyage from the observation deck.

After placing his prepped crust into the refrigerator to chill again, Dean joins him back at the counter and does what he can to help Castiel save his very sad pie crust. They do eventually get enough of it smoothed out to press into the pan, but they can both already tell that, once again, they’ll probably only be sampling from _Dean’s_ finished dish.

“Behind you,” he murmurs, placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder to stop the man from backing up into him as he moves to place his somewhat-salvaged crust in the refrigerator. Dean freezes in place, the two of them incredibly close and Castiel is suddenly incredibly aware of how firm Dean’s biceps are under the thin jersey fabric of his t-shirt. He snatches his hand away as if burned, flushing when he realizes he’s left a floury handprint on Dean’s black shirt sleeve.

Seeing his embarrassed look, Dean glances down at his shoulder, then looks back up at Castiel with a grin as he turns sideways to let him pass. “Don’t worry about it. Occupational hazard. Or, well, hobby hazard, I suppose.”

Realizing this could be the opening he’s been waiting for, Castiel tries to sound casual as he closes the refrigerator door and turns back to face Dean.

“You don’t get to bake anything at the Roadhouse then?”

“Nah,” Dean answers, his attention focused on their double oven as he sets each one to the correct temperature. Now they have about twenty minutes to kill as they wait for their ovens to preheat and their crusts to chill, before they need to roll out the top halves of their pie crusts.

Dean turns and leans back against the countertop, his body a long, lean line of casual muscle encased in cotton and denim, the fitted apron he’s wearing making him look no less appealing. Dean somehow manages to look as if he belongs equally in the kitchen or behind the wheel of some sexed-up muscle car. Castiel blinks as his friend D’s profile picture pops into his head: a sleek, black beast of a car that just screams “sex on wheels.” He wonders for a moment if that car’s owner is even half as sexy as the man standing across from him and then feels immediately guilty.

“That’s unfortunate.” Castiel tries to sound sympathetic as he mentally berates himself.

What does it matter what D looks like? For one thing, they’re _friends_ and friends who barely know one another, despite D’s casual flirting. Though they’ve had hours of online conversations by this point, when it comes to real-life details, all Castiel knows is that D works at a bar, is taking a class so he hopefully won’t always work there, and apparently is a car guy, judging by his profile picture and Twitter handle. With such little information to go on, it’s no wonder his brain keeps intermixing D with Dean, who is currently the other most interesting thing in Castiel’s life. The name similarity doesn’t help either, though he knows that Dean hates to have his name shortened that way.

Still though, Castiel finds himself reminded of his online friend frequently while talking with Dean in class. Dean will say something that reminds him of something D said, or a joke D made, or just something D would think is funny. During their class a few weeks ago, for instance, Dean had started telling Castiel about his favorite cupcake recipe as they made buttercream icing and Castiel was immediately reminded of his conversation with D the night before, in which he learned that not only had D decided to keep the kitten (which was no surprise to Castiel by that point), but had decided to call her Cupcake, for reasons he refused to disclose. Or the soufflé class before that, when Dean called him “Soufflé Girl,” the day after he and D had discussed “their” Doctors. He’d been so shocked both by the timing of the joke and the fact that Dean apparently knew _Doctor Who_ that the moment had passed before he could even begin to formulate an appropriate response.

Castiel isn’t stupid, of course. He knows what it means when you think about someone so frequently that even the most minor, seemingly unrelated things bring them immediately to mind. When those memories bring with them a tingling warmth in your chest and seeing their name pop-up on your phone sends a thrill of excitement down your spine. Clearly, he’s developing a crush on his mystery friend, which wouldn’t be so bad he supposes, if he weren’t _also_ developing a crush on his classmate/would-be employee. Dealing with one hopeless crush is difficult enough, how is one supposed to deal with two?

“Ellen’s dessert menu is pretty limited. Mostly sundaes and milkshakes,” Dean explains further. “People really come there for the burgers and the beers. Most are too stuffed by the end of their meal to order dessert, so baked goods would just go to waste. Ice cream keeps longer.”

“So, what are your plans after this class then?” Castiel asks curiously.

Dean shrugs. “Dunno. Keep working at the Roadhouse I guess. Maybe take those other classes Missouri mentioned, if I can afford them. Might need to save up a little first.”

“Hmm,” Castiel hums noncommittally. “My brother, the one who owns the coffee shop I manage, also owns Sweet Scoops Ice Cream. He thought about bringing ice cream into the coffee shop, for similar reasons. Plus, of course, because neither of us can bake. Unfortunately though, you can’t really get away with having a coffee shop without some kind of baked goods.”

Dean grins. “And that’s why you’re here, right?”

“Ostensibly, yes,” Castiel grimaces, “But you can see how well that plan is turning out. I had hoped to learn how to at least passably bake a couple of coffee shop staples. Croissants, scones, and the like, but it turns out those are all more complicated than I anticipated… especially the scones.”

“Dude, don’t remind me about the scones,” Dean says with a mock shudder and Castiel flicks a stray chunk of pie dough at him from the countertop.

Waggling his eyebrows at Castiel’s glare, Dean goes on, “You know, it’s good to have a few coffee shop standards on hand every day, like blueberry muffins or cranberry orange scones, things everyone likes, but you should also have a couple of specialty items, something people can _only_ get at your shop, you know? Plus, rotating in some seasonal items will help keep people interested. Some people might have the willpower to resist something they know they can order anytime, but if they know it’s only available for a limited time, they’ll be more likely to indulge.”

Castiel hums again, “Yes. We do that with our lattes and specialty drinks. I hadn’t thought about doing the same with our baked offerings.” He tries to look nonchalant as he asks, “What would you put on the menu then?”

Crossing his arms thoughtfully, Dean considers. “Well, like I said, a couple of basic scones and muffins are a given. Croissants too, though I might do plain croissants and rotate in a specialty option, like chocolate chip or cheddar. In addition to that, we’ll be heading into summer soon, so I’d focus on something fruity. Maybe a mixed berry tart or a peach streusel muffin.”

Castiel blinks. Dean just came up with all of that? On the spot?

“Come work for me,” he blurts and Dean startles.

“What?”

“Come work for me, at the coffee shop,” Castiel adds as if Dean would think there were some other business Castiel might want to hire him for.

“Are you serious?”

“Completely. The Sweet Bean needs a baker if it’s going to survive, and you’ve seen how hopeless I am in the kitchen.”

“Cas. That’s flattering and all, but I’m not really a baker. I’m just some guy who bakes pies and cupcakes out of his crappy, outdated kitchen.”

“I think it’s pretty clear that whatever you are, you’re more of a baker than I am, Dean,” Castiel insists. “Besides, plenty of bakers get their start baking out of their own kitchens. In fact, this is probably counterproductive to my goal of hiring you, but there’s really no reason you couldn’t sell baked goods right out of your home.”

Dean quirks a half grin and huffs a laugh, looking as if he’s remembering an inside joke. “Yeah. My, uh, roommate situation isn’t really conducive to that. Plus, I don’t really have the equipment I’d need to make enough product to turn a profit.”

“All the more reason to come work for me. I mean, us,” Castiel amends quickly. “We probably couldn’t pay you anymore than you’re making at the Roadhouse,” he says apologetically, “but you’d have full access to our industrial kitchen and you’d be welcome to run your own baking business out of it and use your contributions to our pastry case as free advertising. And, of course, we’d pay for you to continue taking classes here.” Castiel definitely hasn’t run that last part by Gabriel, but they’ll make it work. As Missouri said, talent like Dean’s deserves to be nurtured. Plus, while Castiel may not know baking, he does know business and investing in your employees is key to running a successful one.

He holds Dean’s eyes, trying to look as earnest and encouraging as he can. Dean bites his lips, his answering gaze hesitant, but looking hopeful too.

The oven beeps, letting them know it’s preheated and they both jump back a step. Dean rubs a nervous hand over the back of his neck and Castiel feels immediately bad for pushing. “You don’t need to answer right now, of course,” he says hurriedly. “Take some time to think about it and just let me know next week if you’d like to talk about it further.”

Dean nods. “Thanks, Cas,” he says softly before turning to pull their pie crusts out of the refrigerator. They roll out the top halves of their crusts, Castiel’s going much more smoothly this time as he remembers to go easy on the flour.

Castiel layers his entire crust overtop his apple-filled pie plate, carefully pinching the edges together and cutting slits in the top to release the steam as Missouri demonstrates at the front of the room. Dean, however, seems to need something to do with his hands. He slices his crust into thin strips, expertly weaving them together to form a beautiful lattice crust on top of his caramel-drizzled apples.

As he turns around from sliding his pie into the heated oven, he meets Castiel’s eyes, asking with an air of determined nonchalance, “So, where exactly is this coffeeshop of yours located? In case I wanted to check it out?”

Feeling a strange fluttery sensation in his chest, Castiel recites _The Sweet Bean’s_ address as Dean enters it in his phone..

As predicted, they only end up sampling from Dean’s apple pie, which is every bit as delicious as promised. But as he dumps his sad attempt at America’s favorite dessert in the garbage at the end of class, he finds himself feeling decidedly hopeful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, hungry yet?? 
> 
> In case you are, let me helpfully supply you with recipes for Dean's [Orange-Vanilla Cupcakes](https://www.food.com/recipe/magnolia-bakery-orange-vanilla-cupcakes-237037) with [Swiss Meringue Buttercream](https://sallysbakingaddiction.com/swiss-meringue-buttercream/) and [Caramel Apple Pie](https://sallysbakingaddiction.com/salted-caramel-apple-pie/#tasty-recipes-76345) with [Homemade Salted Caramel Sauce](https://sallysbakingaddiction.com/homemade-salted-caramel-recipe/#tasty-recipes-68127).
> 
> Alright, now that we're all 5 pounds heavier, what did you think of the chapter? Cupcake the kitten is here to stay. Is anyone surprised? 😂  
> It was quite the chore deciding which pie flavor to go with in this chapter. I thought apple was a pretty basic pie that one might find in a baking class, especially since apples are on the more economical end of the fruit spectrum. And I didn't think about this when writing it a month or so ago, but it just happens to be apple season here! The funny thing though, is that apple is actually my least favorite pie. 😂  
> So how about you? Are you an apple pie fan or is there a superior flavor? (And yes friends, this is the oatmeal raisin vs. chocolate chip debate all over again. Choose wisely.) And if you don't care for pie at all, what is your favorite all treat?
> 
> Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed this little bit of baking fluff! Until next Monday! 💖


	5. Mash three ripe bananas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning, lovelies!
> 
> It's super early here, but I wanted to post this chapter before I head to work. Thank you for all of the wonderful comments on last week's chapter and for sharing all of your favorite pie flavors and so many lovely childhood memories with me last week! 
> 
> Thank you always and forever to the lovely and talented [EllenOfOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz) for her beta work, cheerleading, and general loveliness! And same goes to our artist-in-residence, [LadyRandomBox](https://www.instagram.com/ladyrandombox/?hl=en). If you haven't checked out her Insta yet, why haven't you?? Also, she doesn't know this yet, but the entire reason I got an Insta fandom account was to follow her. So my apologies to anyone who follows me on there and is expecting content. I literally post nothing. 😂
> 
> Okay, now for this week's chapter. I believe Dean has a decision to make...

Castiel fidgets nervously with the hem of his fuchsia apron. He’s still not sure what possessed his brother to choose such garish colors for the coffee shop. Neon pink and green are hardly the first things anyone wants to be visually assaulted with pre-caffeine. In the mid-morning light, however, Castiel has to begrudgingly admit the bold accents do lend a cheery atmosphere to the exposed brick and the black chalkboard behind the counter spanning nearly the entire length of the wall.

Whatever else it is, the color scheme is very Gabriel, unrepentantly loud and vibrant in a world full of muted earth tones. And speaking of, his brother chooses that moment to sweep into the shop, as always, hours after opening.

“Cassie! Has he shown yet? Have I missed him? Oh wait, you still have that ‘I can’t tell if I’m constipated or about to shit my pants look’ you’ve been wearing for two days, so apparently not.” Gabe grins and pulls a pre-packaged biscotti out of the jar on the counter.

Glaring at him, Castiel rings up the price of a biscotti on the register and adds it to the tab he’s started for the shop’s owner. He’s been trying, quite futilely, to convince his brother that he needs to track how much he’s eating away in the shop and do the same for all of the employees, otherwise it skews both their inventory and their profit numbers. Of course, Gabe hadn’t been at all swayed by Castiel’s reasoning. How his brother owns such a thriving series of ice cream shops had been a baffling mystery to Castiel, until he’d learned that much like _The Sweet Bean_ , he leaves the actual _managing_ of those businesses to other people.

Per usual, Castiel is torn between being frustrated with his brother’s lack of work ethic and impressed with his talent for hiring the right people to do the work for him. He has no real business sense of his own, but a real knack for spotting it in other people, which is the _only_ reason Castiel had told him about Dean’s promise to “stop by this weekend.” This _is_ Gabe’s business, after all, and he should probably at least meet the man Castiel has already offered a full-time job to in order to save it. Of course, that is _if_ said man ever shows up.

“No, Dean hasn’t stopped by yet,” Castiel needlessly answers his brother’s question, choosing to ignore all references to inconvenient bodily functions. People _eat_ here, after all. He frowns at the lackluster pastry display case that is still every bit as full as it was when he stocked it at six o’clock this morning. Okay, people c _affeinate_ here. Hopefully, if Dean hasn’t already decided to pass on Castiel’s job offer, they’ll eat here soon, too.

“Well, let me know when he arrives. Andy’s unloading the truck, right? I’m going to go glare at the kid until he gets nervous and drops something. Dude _always_ shows up hungover and still half-stoned on Saturday mornings. It’s hilarious.”

As Castiel frowns disapprovingly, Gabe saunters toward the back of the shop, where an indeed very hungover Andy is currently regretting his life choices as he unpacks their weekly supply delivery, a routine he completes every weekend without fail. Normally, Castiel would never advocate keeping on an employee who regularly comes to work with the after effects of inebriation so clearly evident, but Andy is always sober during his weekday evening shifts, shows up without fail every Saturday, and most importantly, unpacks the entire truck by himself without complaint, keeping Castiel from having to do it.

Feeling his phone buzz in the pocket beneath his apron, Castiel waits until the kitchen door has swung firmly closed behind his brother before retrieving it. The last thing he needs is Gabe finding out about D. He’s already caught Castiel messaging the man several times at the apartment, but thus far has been satisfied with Castiel’s deflections about helping someone with “cat rescue stuff.” He knows part of that is Gabe still feeling guilty about Castiel having to give up his fostering when he moved in. However, he also knows that no amount of guilt would keep his brother from teasing him mercilessly should he discover the true nature of Castiel’s messaging with D.

Unlocking his smartphone with the fingerprint reader, Castiel opens D’s newest message. Eager to distract himself from perseverating on Dean’s potential visit, he had messaged D earlier to ask what his plans were for the day, knowing that he doesn’t have to work his bar job until the evening.

Castiel feels his mood lift instantly. D has a job interview? Does this mean the class he’s taking is paying off already? He’d been both incredibly happy and a little touched when his friend had told him that Castiel had inspired him to go for his dream job, but he’s still surprised D is taking action so quickly. Oftentimes people say something like that and then end up not following through, for any number of reasons. How many times had Castiel himself said (if only inside his own head) that he was going to leave NovaCorp? In the end, it had taken his father’s entire business being exposed as a Ponzi scheme and the total collapse of the Novak empire for him to cut ties.

In truth, Castiel is lucky not to be behind bars with his father and older brothers right now. Castiel had worked far enough below Luke, NovaCorp’s CFO, that he never knew the accounts he was processing were simply shifting money around from one investor to another. The “science and technology pioneering” the company had promised was entirely a sham, the numerous products and R&D projects boasted about on their website and presented in investor meetings existing on paper only—wild fabrications.

Looking back, he’s fairly certain some of those weren’t even scientifically possible, which explains why his father and eldest brother, Michael, took a much more direct role than many company presidents and CEOs, meeting with potential investors personally, instead of allowing their sales team to do so. They couldn’t risk their deceit being uncovered.

Of course, Castiel thinks, pulling himself back to the topic at hand, he might be getting ahead of himself. D didn’t actually say that his interview is for his dream job and he doesn’t want to make any assumptions that could make his friend feel bad about whatever kind of job he might be applying for. He tries to word his question diplomatically, but D sees through his attempt at subtlety immediately.

Castiel frowns to himself as he reads D’s last message. It hasn’t escaped his notice that his friend has an unfortunate (and somewhat frustrating) tendency to downplay his talents and accomplishments. Well, he supposes that just gives him more opportunity to talk about the other man’s many endearing traits, which is certainly no hardship.

Castiel grins to himself. That had been a memorable Sunday morning. Gabriel had nearly fallen out of bed at Robert Plant’s shrill opening vocals. A sneaking suspicion about exactly how little his brother was wearing beneath his satin sheets made Castiel exceedingly grateful he hadn’t, however.

Castiel is still looking down at the phone in his hand, feeling warm and fluttery at D calling him “the best,” when Gabe strides back into the kitchen, booming, “Are you checking the time _again?_ Why? You said you’re not even sure when he’s free this weekend, didn’t you?”

Startling so badly he nearly fumbles his phone, Castiel scowls at his brother. “I’m not sure what his work schedule looks like, no, aside from knowing that he currently has off Tuesdays and Thursdays from five to eight.”

“Relaaaax, Castiel. I’m sure he’ll show up. And if he stands you up, you’ll only have to suffer through two more incredibly awkward baking classes together before you never have to see him again.” 

Ignoring the way his stomach suddenly drops at the thought of never seeing Dean again, Castiel grumbles, “It’s not a date, Gabriel. It’s a business opportunity. One we _need_ in order to save this business. So please, if he does show up, try not to ruin it by being…”

Gabe grins easily. “Myself?”

“Exactly.”

Before Gabe has a chance to respond, they both turn at the faint tinkling of the bell above _The Sweet Bean’s_ door. Castiel grips the edge of the countertop to keep standing upright at the sight of Dean striding into his coffee shop like a rock star in thigh-hugging jeans and a fitted black leather jacket, tucking his sunglasses into the collar of the graphic tee beneath. The sun shines brightly behind him, spotlighting the man in the doorway and nearly blinding Castiel. Or maybe that’s just Dean.

Gabe’s voice is suddenly right next to his ear and blissfully too low for the man across the room to hear as he whispers, “Dios mio! Are you _sure_ this isn’t a date?”

Unfortunately, he doesn’t have time to elbow Gabe in the ribs before Dean spots them.

“Hey, Cas!”

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel smiles, wondering if he’s imagining the way Dean’s entire expression seems to light up when he sees Castiel behind the counter. He’s certain he’s not imagining the way Dean’s eyes rove up and down his form, though he is a little disappointed when he finds out why a moment later.

Dean grins. “Cute apron. Do I get one like that if I start workin’ here?”

“What’s wrong, Deano?” Gabe asks before Castiel can respond, arms folded and a challenging smirk on his face. “Think a ‘real man’ can’t pull off pink?”

Snorting, Dean answers, “Pretty sure Cas can pull off anything.” Seeming to realize what he just said, he blushes before rushing on. “I was actually thinking it’ll match the one I have at home. Gift from my kid brother.”

“Speaking of brothers, let me unfortunately introduce you to mine,” Castiel jumps in, eager to save both Dean and himself from any more embarrassment, though introducing him to Gabriel seems counterproductive to that goal. “This is Gabriel Novak, owner and proprietor of The Sweet Bean and general bane of my existence.”

“I’m most proud of the last title,” Gabe says with a grin, reaching out to shake Dean’s hand.

“Dean Winchester,” Dean says, shaking Gabe’s hand firmly. “Nice to meet you. Novak, like NovaCorp?” Dean grins, clearly thinking he’s making a joke.

“Exactly like NovaCorp,” Gabriel beams. “What, Cassie didn’t tell you?”

Dean’s eyes widen. “You’re shitting me.”

“Not at all. Cassie and I are the youngest and currently only un-incarcerated sons of the infamous Charles Novak.”

“Wow.” Dean looks stunned. “I can’t believe you’re one of _those_ Novaks.”

“Excuse me, I haven’t been one of _those_ Novaks since I was seventeen,” Gabe says indignantly. “Just ask my mother. Cassie was though. Good little corporate soldier, right up until he discovered what a fraud our dear old dad was and finally staged that teenage rebellion he’d been putting off for a decade. Cut ties and came to work for me.” His brother looks at him proudly and Castiel flushes. Gabe makes it sound like something heroic, but Castiel still feels sick when he thinks of all the people he’d unknowingly helped his family swindle. Sure, most of them had been well enough off that the losses they suffered at the hands of NovaCorp won’t ruin them, but not all.

“I can’t believe Cassie didn’t tell you,” Gabe goes on, looking at Castiel admonishingly. “It’s pretty much the most interesting thing about either of us.”

“No, Gabe. Unlike you, when I meet new people I don’t generally lead with our family shame.”

“Hey,” Gabe defends, pointing a finger at Castiel, “I’ve been getting laid off the Novak name for years and I don’t plan to stop now. It’s the only good thing that name’s ever done for me. Filthy rich renegade business heir plays so much better than moderately well-to-do ice cream peddler.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense. If you actually had any money tied to the company, all your assets would be frozen, like mine,” Castiel argues.

“Well sure, but I don’t tell them _that_ part.” Gabe winks.

Sighing heavily, Castiel decides the best course of action is to move on and hope he can head off the worst of Gabriel’s bad behavior before he sends Dean running.

“So, now that you’ve met Gabriel and heard our embarrassing family history, this is The Sweet Bean,” he says, gesturing around at the brick and neon décor.

Dean turns around in a slow circle, nodding. “Nice. I’m digging the aesthetic.”

“Really?” Castiel asks in surprise.

“Yeah. The brick makes it feel a little rustic, but the bright colors make it feel a bit fresher. Not just the kind of coffee shop you can visit in the morning, but an all-day kind of place, you know?”

“ _Exactly,_ ” Gabriel crows. “That’s what I’ve been telling him! I don’t want to be the kind of coffee shop that’s packed between six and eight in the morning and then dead until closing.”

“So you’re going to want something to draw in the younger crowd,” Dean says thoughtfully, nodding his head, “or families.”

Castiel can already see the wheels turning in Dean’s mind as he’s probably planning out a full evening pastry menu.

“You got something in mind?” Gabe asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Maybe. Cas said you own Sweet Scoops too. Now, I know you don’t want to just sell your ice cream here and become your own competitor, but what if you used it as a base for other desserts and drinks? You could draw people in with the familiar name, but the product lines wouldn’t overlap. You could even double up on some of your most popular flavor names too. People might not be able to get a waffle cone with chocolate pecan ice cream here, but they _could_ get a frozen mocha paired with a chocolate pecan cookie. Or a mocha pecan latte with a slice of chocolate pecan pie.”

“I’m hungry and you’re hired. Cassie, show him the kitchen.” Castiel can already see the dollar signs bouncing around in Gabe’s eyes. Yes, this was an excellent idea.

“Would you like to see the kitchen, Dean?” Castiel asks with a smile, noting the way Dean’s eyes had lit up like a small child on Christmas morning at the word.

“Hell yes,” comes the exuberant response.

Chuckling, Castiel leads the way down the narrow hallway next to the counter that holds the entrances to the kitchen and bathrooms. Dean steps through the swinging double doors and gapes, mouth hanging wide.

“You have _this_ kitchen and you’ve been buying frozen baked goods?” He looks offended at the very suggestion. Castiel leads him over to the three long, stacked stainless steel ovens.

“Well, we do have to heat some of them up in the ovens,” he says sheepishly.

Dean rests a sympathetic hand on the first oven’s gleaming steel door. “Oh, sweetheart,” he says sadly. “What have they done to you?”

Turning, Dean points at another tall oven with two sets of glass double doors. “And you’ve got a proofer?”

“A what?” Castiel asks tilting his head quizzically at Dean.

Dean turns back to look at him, mouth opening to presumably answer his question, when he bursts into laughter instead.

“What’s so funny?” Castiel asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Nothing,” Dean chortles, waving him off. “You just reminded me of someone.” Before Castiel can ask who, Dean continues, “A proofer is a special oven for warming bread dough so the yeast can rise.”

“Oh. You need a special oven for that?”

Whatever his protests that he’s “not a real baker,” Dean has clearly done his research when it comes to his desired profession.

Dean grins fondly before his eyes go wide again as they reach the two mixers, a smaller one resting on a stainless steel tabletop and one so large Castiel finds even the sight of it intimidating, sitting on the floor next to the table.

“Cas. You don’t have a coffee shop that sells baked goods. You have a _bakery_ that sells coffee.”

“Hmm…” Castiel hums in agreement. “Well, in that case I would very much like for it to be a bakery that also sells baked goods. Would this kitchen be able to produce enough pastries for the coffeeshop while also allowing you to operate your own business? I meant it when I said I want you to be able to sell your own products, independent of The Sweet Bean.”

“Uh, yeah, Cas. This’ll do,” Dean says quietly, looking a little overwhelmed.

“Does that mean you might be interested?” Castiel asks cautiously.

After a long lingering look around the gleaming kitchen, Dean takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly before turning to Castiel with a lopsided grin.

“I’m in.”

_Aa-ah-aaaaah-Ah. Aa-ah-aaaaah-Ah. We come from the land of ice and snow. From the midnight sun, where the hot springs flow…_

Rolling over with a groan, Dean slaps his hand over the phone on his nightstand, sluggish fingers fumbling for the side button that will silence his alarm.

Like he’d told CJ, this is normally a song he reserves for scaring the piss out of a sleeping Sam during his visits home from school, but Dean knew he’d need something a little more urgent than his usual “morning chimes” to pull him out of bed at three A.M.

Today is his first day of work at _The Sweet Bean,_ which means it’s his first official day as a baker and his first day keeping bakers’ hours. Not, of course, that Dean has the first fucking idea what he’s doing here. Whipping up apple pie and buttercream frosting at home with his beat-up old hand mixer is a far cry from baking enough pastries to sustain a business in that fancy industrial kitchen with its three ovens and giant-ass floor mixer that, quite frankly, scares Dean a little bit.

 _It’s just a dry run_ , he reminds himself as he brushes his teeth after a five-minute shower, repeating the words for what must be the seventy-fifth time since he’d accepted Cas’ offer. That had been more than two weeks ago now, since Dean had needed to put in his two weeks at the _Roadhouse._

At least, that’s what he told Cas. Truthfully, Ellen would have gladly let him leave without notice and no hard feelings for an opportunity like this, but Dean needed the time. He’d spent the past two weeks reading every internet blog and article he could find on how to start your own bakery, educating himself on everything from the various ovens and pieces of equipment he’d seen in Cas’ kitchen, to how to scale up recipes, to planning out his first additions to _The Sweet Bean’s_ menu. Still though, he feels about as far from ready as it’s possible to be, which is problematic, given that he’s due at the bakery in an hour. Fortunately, Cas had the foresight to suggest that Dean give himself a week to “acclimate to his new culinary environment,” before his “grand opening.”

This week will be spent with Dean adapting some of his favorite recipes to produce coffee-shop quantities, learning the temperament of his new ovens, finalizing his menu, and ordering any last-minute supplies or ingredients he’s going to need to prep for his first official sales day, one week from today.

Spitting out his toothpaste, Dean runs a hand over his jaw as he takes in his appearance in the mirror above the bathroom sink. As tempting as it is to skip shaving at this ungodly hour, the bloodshot eyes and scruff combo make him look somewhere between hungover and haunted. Not exactly the “professional baker who totally has his shit together” vibe Dean’s going for. Besides, he’d at least like to get the chance to bake something before Cas regrets hiring him. Not that he’s prettying himself up for Cas, he reminds himself as he lathers up his face and neck with his favorite peppermint-scented shaving cream. It’s not like that.

It’s _not_.

Cas is his boss. His very professional, very handsome, very sex-haired, very perfect-ass-and-watermelon-crushing-thighs-having boss. Oh. And the arms. Goddamn those arms. In class, Dean had forced himself to become incredibly focused on his own baking every time Cas stirred something. In fact, he’s fairly certain a good part of the problem with Cas’ leather-impersonating pie crust was that the man had over-mixed it because Dean was too busy ogling the way his biceps moved beneath the short sleeves of the t-shirt he’d finally swapped his button-downs for to stop him.

Baking class has been over for more than a week now though, which means that Dean hasn’t seen Cas since he handed him the list of ingredients he’d needed ordered to get the kitchen up and running after their last class. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d looked forward to those three hours twice a week. Seeing what new disaster Cas was going to concoct in their kitchen and trying to help him bake his way out of it had become the highlight of Dean’s week, aside from messaging with CJ, of course, which is pretty much the highlight of Dean’s every day.

He has Cas’ phone number now, for business purposes, and had almost been tempted to text him once or twice, but that just seemed weird. All their conversations had centered around baking. What would they even talk about over text? Cas might be the most attractive man Dean’s ever met and he’s a Novak to boot. His money might be unavailable at the moment, but it still exists. And in very large quantities.

It’s no wonder the guy doesn’t know how to cook. He’s probably never had to—more accustomed to catering services and five-star restaurants than preparing food for himself. His fridge probably only holds fancy, over-priced, vitamin-infused, volcanic spring mineral water that doesn’t smell vaguely like rotten eggs and taste like iron, the way Dean’s tap water does.

What would Dean even say to someone like that in a text message? “How’s it going? Here, check out this cute video of my dumbass cat pouncing on its own shadow?”

No, those kinds of conversations are best left for CJ, the dorky would-be cat rescuer who’s quickly becoming Dean’s closest friend and confidant. Conversation topics are never hard to come by with CJ, who has a way of cutting straight through Dean’s bullshit and drivel about the latest Marvel movies to his buried insecurities and leading Dean into the kinds of meaningful conversations he usually runs screaming from. Somehow, it’s easier to talk to CJ about stuff, knowing that he doesn’t know any specifics, doesn’t know the shitty day-to-day details of Dean’s life. Doesn’t know that Dean’s “dream job” is something hundreds of bored housewives do out of their own kitchens as a side gig.

As nice a guy as Cas seems, this coffee shop is just a detour for him, something to keep him busy until his “assets” are unfrozen. Dean must be a joke to a guy like that. Nothing good for Dean can come from mixing business with pleasure here, no matter how attractive his boss’ _other_ assets are.

Dean rinses off his razor and runs a thumb along his clean-shaven jawline before picking up his phone, leaning against the bathroom countertop as he scrolls through his message history with CJ, re-reading their conversation from the night before.

Dean had snorted when he read that last night, taking a moment to imagine what a sexual harassment video created by Gabe might be like. Before he could explain to CJ that it’s not _that_ kind of orientation, his phone had buzzed again.

Feeling himself blushing all over again, Dean presses the side button on his phone, causing the screen to go dark and reflect his soft, pleased smile back at him in its shiny black glass. For a guy who claims to not know how to flirt, CJ sure knows exactly what to say to have Dean acting like a crushing teenage girl. Maybe that’s what it is though. CJ’s _not_ flirting.

Dean’s no stranger to flirting. He’s been the deliverer and receiver of just about every cheesy pick-up line known to man and he’s pretty much immune at this point. CJ though, he doesn’t flirt, or hint, or innuendo. He just says things. Really sweet, really _real_ things, like he means them. Dean’s not really sure what to do with that. He’s got no defense against honesty.

Of course, it’s not like it _means_ anything. Not really. CJ is just his friend. His incredibly sweet, somewhat socially awkward friend that has no idea what he probably thinks are just honest and straightforward observations happen to be some of the sweetest, most romantic shit anyone’s ever said to Dean. Especially anyone who wasn’t actively trying to get in his pants. And he definitely has no idea the mess that’s making of Dean’s head.

Resting safely out of the splash zone on the vanity countertop, his phone starts blaring the chorus to _Hair_ as Dean runs product-covered fingers through his own shower-damp strands.

Glancing at the time to see that it’s only three-thirty, he smirks as he wraps a towel around his waist. If Sam’s calling him now, it probably means the nerd hasn’t gone to bed yet. Most likely, he’s pulling an all-nighter to finish some paper or study for some exam, or hell, for all Dean knows, maybe just to study for the fun of it. Who can possibly understand his little brother’s nerdly ways? Still though, it’s sweet of him to call. Dean can already feel his first day nerves calming, the knots in his stomach loosening at the prospect of talking to his brother.

“Mornin’ Sammy,” he greets gruffy as he answers the call. Sure, he might be really touched Sam thought to call, but there’s no need for _Sam_ to know that.

“DEEEEAN,” Sam drags out the name in an excited half-shout, which immediately falls into a sulkier tone. “Dean, I lost my shoe.”

“Sam? Are you drunk?” Dean doesn’t know whether to be shocked or proud. Not only is Sam clearly inebriated, but he’s drunk on a _school night._

“Mmhmm,” Sam agrees and Dean grins, picturing his brother nodding even though Dean can’t see him. 

“Don’t you have class today?” Dean asks mildly, feeling like he should at least pretend to be the responsible older brother once in a while.

“Not till one,” Sam slurs into the phone. “Mornin’ class’s cancelled.”

“And so you just decided to get hammered instead? Not that I don’t approve, but is this one of those warning signs the afterschool specials warned me about?”

“’S not a _warning sign_ , Dean,” Sam pouts. “It’s just… There’s this girl.”

“Ah,” Dean responds as the grin spreads across his face. Now this is more like it. His little brother is finally loosening up and having the true college experience. Not that Dean has any firsthand experience with that, but come on, he’s seen TV.

“Yeah.” Sam’s voice takes on a dreamy quality and Dean imagines he’s probably leaning against the wall and staring off into space with some dopey, lovesick expression on his face. What a girl.

“So, this girl got a name?”

“Sarah. She’s an art history major and she’s smart. And nice. And pretty.”

“And smart, nice, pretty art-history-major-Sarah is the reason for your Cinderella impersonation?”

“Her friend was having an art show and there was a…a…you know, thingy afterward. With drinks and little food things.”

“You mean a reception?”

“Yeah! A reception!”

“You got shit-faced at an art show reception?” Dean may not know a lot of fancy college artists, but he’s pretty sure if Sam was this wasted at this Sarah girl’s friend’s art show, he’s blown any shot he may have had here.

“Noooo,” Sam protests. “That was at the after-party.”

“Ah” Dean says with an eye roll. “Of course. The _after-party._ ”

Putting away his deodorant and razor, Dean makes his way down the short hallway to his bedroom as Sam keeps talking.

“Shhhh, Dean. Gotta be quiet,” he scolds, as if Dean were standing right next to him instead of almost 200 miles away. “Hafta sneak into my dorm room. Can’t wake Brady. He’s got a early class. Gotta be still…stell…” Sam trails off, searching his liquor-pickled brain for the right word.

“Stealthy?” Dean supplies helpfully as he pushes open the door to his bedroom.

“Yeah. That. Like a ninja.” Dean can almost picture the awful ninja moves his gangly brother is performing outside of his dorm room door.

“Yeah, Sammy,” he says with another fond eye roll as he walks into his bedroom, “You’re a drunk ninj—Gaah! Son of a bitch, Cupcake!”

Dean nearly leaps out of his skin, hopping on one foot in a combination of pain and terror when he feels tiny claws latch into the exposed skin of his calf where Cupcake has pounced on him from behind the bedroom door. The claws flex once more before the kitten bounds away again, skidding into the doorframe on her way out of the room.

“You’re like a drunk goddamn ninja who sheds,” Dean hollers after the retreating ginger blur.

“Dean,” Sam asks through the phone, “are you talking to me or the cat?”

“Both, Samantha,” Dean answers shortly, “and the fact that you even gotta ask me that says just how goddamn much you need a haircut!”

Thirty minutes later finds Dean standing outside of _The Sweet Bean_ ’s rear entrance, where Cas said he could park. Dean pulls the collar of his leather jacket up around his ears for warmth as he tugs his phone out of his jacket pocket to text Cas. Even in May, it can be chilly this early in the morning. As he unlocks his phone, his fingers pull up his Twitter DM with CJ on autopilot and he’s got his message to Cas halfway typed out before he catches himself.

“Well, that would have been embarrassing,” he mutters to himself as he deletes the words, “Hey I’m standing outside. Let me in,” from the chat box. That’s certainly one way to get rid of your anonymous internet crush.

Once he’s finally managed to type the same into a new text message to _Cas_ this time, Dean hits send and waits for a response, tucking his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. He only has a minute to wait before the large green door swings open in front of him, a rather grumpy looking Castiel squinting at him from behind it.

Looking between Dean and his vehicle, Cas frowns, looking momentarily disappointed before he blurts out, “That’s not what I pictured you driving.”

Taken aback, both by the blunt statement and total lack of, “Good morning, Dean. How are you today?” Dean blinks. After a moment, he realizes that this is actually the first time Cas has seen what Dean drives, since he always parked in the front lot during their shared class while Dean preferred the less busy side lot, a long-standing habit he inherited from John, to make sure his Baby doesn’t get dinged by some asshole who doesn’t know how to park in the center of a goddamn parking spot. Not that it really matters right now, of course.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, clearing his throat as he gestures to the rusting and dented pick-up truck he’s been driving for the past year, “used to belong to my dad. It’s not my main car, but she needs some work right now. I’d been savin’ some money to fix her up, but I uh, spent it on the baking class instead.”

Dean blushes, not sure why he’s sharing all of this with Cas, a guy who’s probably never had to save up for anything in his entire life…and standing in an alleyway next to a dumpster no less. Feeling more than a little embarrassed by the rust bucket behind him, he thinks longingly of Baby’s sleek black frame, currently sitting under a tarp behind his dad’s trailer. He’s lucky his dad had held onto the old truck he’d used to transport car parts for the garage. A classic car like Baby takes a good deal of maintenance and TLC and once they’d lost the garage, well, Dean’s line cook salary only stretches so far. Eventually, he’d had to choose between putting Baby out to pasture or pushing her too far and doing some real damage.

“So, uh, can I come in?”

“Oh, I… um, sorry. Of course.” Cas blushes his time as he steps out of the way and motions for Dean to come in. “I apologize, Dean,” he says as he leads the way down the narrow hallway and out into the shop, “I didn’t mean to…” Cas trails off, seeming to second-guess whatever he was going to say, replacing it with, “I’m useless before coffee.” 

Ducking behind the counter, he pulls down a ceramic coffee cup and fills it from the drip coffee decanter on the back counter. “Would you like a cup?” he asks Dean, handing over the already-filled cup and pouring himself another when Dean agrees and takes a seat in one of the stools at the end of the counter.

Dean can’t help but stare at Cas as he sets containers of cream and sugar between the two of them before doctoring his own cup. Now that they’re in the light of the shop, Dean can see his bleary eyes and mussed brown hair more clearly. He can tell that, like him, Cas has showered and shaved already this morning, but he still seems near sleep with his half-closed lids and pinked cheeks and it looks like he gave up trying to battle his wayward locks into submission much sooner than usual.

He’s adorable. Sexy _and_ cute? Un-fucking fair, is what it is.

“Why are you smiling at this ungodly hour?” Cas asks him a moment later. “Oh god, you aren’t a _morning person_ are you?”

Dean chuckles. “Kinda, which is probably a good thing if I wanna be a baker, though this is pretty early even for me. I take it you’re not?” he asks as innocently as possible as Cas glowers at him.

“I’m beginning to wonder if frozen pastries were really that bad.”

“Dude,” Dean says, mock-offended, before adding, “How have you managed opening a coffee shop every day if you hate mornings this much?”

“You just answered your own question,” Cas says, pointing at the mug in his hand. “Coffee _._ Shop.”

Seeing that his mug is nearly empty, Cas directs a grumpy frown at it before turning back to the decanter for a refill. A sudden surge of affection washes over Dean and it’s so eerily similar to the way he feels every time CJ says something adorably dorky in their constant stream of messages that the feeling is followed by a cold wave of panic.

Tearing his eyes away from Cas’ ass before the man can turn back his way, Dean stutters out an excuse about needing to get started in the kitchen and beats a hasty retreat down the hallway, not breathing properly until the kitchen doors swing shut behind him.

Looking around at the gleaming stainless-steel, he suddenly finds that he’s a lot less nervous about his baking when it’s either that or face Cas. Having a hopeless crush on the internet friend he’ll probably never meet in real life is one thing. Developing feelings for the hot new _boss_ he has to see every day is quite another. Dean can’t afford to let either his dick or his heart screw this opportunity up for him.

Firmly resolving to put Cas out of his mind, he washes his hands and goes to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it looks like we now have an official baker!Dean, y'all! Only problem is, though we finally have a kitten with a name, we now have a bakery without one. Any guesses on what Dean will call his new business? Let me know in the comments! 
> 
> Also coming next week: a visit from the "interfering" redheaded friend you've all been waiting to see again. I wonder how THAT will turn out? And...*tastes chapter* hmm... I think this story needs more pining. Do you think it needs more pining?
> 
> *Dumps in a heap of pining.* 
> 
> Ah, yes. Delicious.


	6. Add bananas and milk to mixture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good Morning, Friends! 
> 
> Another Monday, another posting day! Thank you all for the lovely comments on last week's chapter! Some of you came up with some ridiculously clever and punny names for Dean's bakery. I'm almost embarrassed to admit that for once in my life, I didn't actually choose a pun! I hope you'll like what I came up with anyway. If you want to see the full-size logo when you get to it, just give it a click! This was the only piece of art I did for this story. 😂
> 
> As always, a huge thank you to [EllenOfOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz) and [LadyRandomBox](https://www.instagram.com/ladyrandombox/?hl=en)! This would also be a good time to thank [MalMuses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses) for some very specific assistance that let me make this story a much more personalized experience for its recipient, the absolutely delightful [AmandaCanzo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmandaCanzo/pseuds/AmandaCanzo).
> 
> I promised you more pining this week and hopefully this chapter delivers! Of course, now that the series is airing again, we'll probably all soon have as much pining as we can stand. 😂 Feel free to mention last week's episode in the comments, but do please try to avoid major spoilers for those who've been unable to watch. Granted, I'm not sure there was anything in this first episode that would count as a "major" spoiler for the overall plot, but the rule will apply throughout the rest of the season. I'll put my comments on the episode in the end notes, so if you don't want to see ANY episode discussion, you can skip those. 
> 
> Now on to the chapter! I know you're all waiting to see what's going to happen when our protagonists' worlds collide in the form of our favorite lady-loving, red-haired computer genius!

Dean’s been at the coffee shop for nearly a week when a familiar red head of hair bounces through the doorway and spreads her arms wide.

“’Sup bitches?”

“Charlie? Small world,” Dean grins as he slides a fresh plate of blueberry scones and peach streusel muffins onto the countertop, “Definitely wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” Charlie answers excitedly. “ _You’re_ Dean-the-new-baker? I had no idea!”

She quickly snatches a pre-cut piece of muffin from the platter before Dean can lower the glass dome overtop, her fingers darting past the hand-lettered sign on the counter: _Free Samples—Homemade pastries available daily beginning next week!_

“O-M-G this is amazing,” Charlie declares around a mouthful of peach streusel. “Cas made a good call, hiring you!”

“Well, I’m just starting out,” Dean admits, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, “but Cas decided to take a chance on me.”

“Is that so?” Charlie asks coyly after she swallows the last of her free sample. “I knew he’d appreciate my ‘interfering’ sooner or later.”

Dean’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. Interference? He and Cas met in baking class. How could the pet store girl have interfered in that? He hadn’t even been aware that she and Cas knew one another until just now.

Before he can ask though, Charlie prattles on. “Speaking of which, how _are_ things going with the boss man? He’s dreamy, right?” she asks, waggling her eyebrows and shooting him a salacious grin.

Feigning dumb, because he is _not_ talking about how hot his new boss is with Charlie, especially not in the coffeeshop where said boss could walk in at any minute, he fixes an innocent expression on his face as he answers, “You mean Gabe? Not really my type.”

“You know I mean Cas,” Charlie retorts, tossing a balled up napkin that Dean deflects with a grin. Fortunately, she’s quickly distracted by another sudden thought. “And oh! What happened with the kitten? Were you able to find it a good home or did you take it to a shelter?”

“Actually, she’s uh, still at my place. Sam, my brother who found the kitten, kind of got attached to the little fuzzball,” he lies. He can tell by the glint in Charlie’s eye that she’s not buying his bullshit for a minute, though.

“Uh huh,” she responds disbelievingly. “And what did _Sam_ name her?”

Dean blushes and clears this throat. “Cupcake,” he says quietly as Charlie chortles.

“Cupcake? That’s perfect, Dean.”

“What about cupcakes?” Dean nearly jumps out of his skin when Cas appears from the hallway leading to the office where he’d been going over the updated supply order Dean had given him for next week. 

Ignoring Charlie’s quiet snort, he answers, “I was just thinking that I should make some cupcakes for the shop, to promote the bakery, not just scones and muffins. It might be easier to get into the market for cakes and cupcakes at first than catering for breakfast pastries and whatnot. Plus, I’m taking Missouri’s cake decorating class now and could use the practice. I mean, I wouldn’t trust myself to make someone’s wedding cake just yet, but I think I could probably handle some birthday cupcakes.”

Cas hums. “I think that’s a great idea, Dean. You could advertise gourmet cupcakes. And once you do start getting larger catering orders, and you will,” he levels Dean with a knowing look that makes Dean’s palms a little sweaty, “you’ll be able to provide dessert options in addition to breakfast pastries. Have you thought of a name for your bakery yet?”

“Um, yeah,” Dean answers nervously. “The Family Business Bakery. Opening a bakery was always my mom’s dream, but she put it on hold so my dad could open his auto shop instead. They were saving money so she could start her bakery once me and Sammy got a bit older, but then she got sick. Most of their savings went to cover her medical bills and…” Dean clears his throat, “she passed away before they could save up enough to try again.”

He risks a glance at Cas’s face and has to quickly look away again at the soft expression he sees there. Dean’s not about to get teary-eyed in front of his sexy-as-sin boss. He’s _not_.

“I think that’s a beautiful tribute, Dean.”

Dean just nods, throat too tight to explain that it’s kind of a tribute to his dad too and the business he loved and lost. Dean might not have wanted to spend his life as a mechanic, but he hopes that at least a little part of his dad might have been proud that Dean’s finally going to carry on at least one Winchester family business.

“I know it doesn’t exactly match the aesthetic around here,” he tells Cas apologetically.

“It’s your business, Dean. You should name it what you want. Besides,” Cas gestures around them, “not matching _is_ the aesthetic around here.”

“Do you have an idea for a logo?” Charlie asks softly next to him and Dean realizes at some point she’s pulled a laptop out and is eagerly typing away.

Cas smiles. “I see you and Charlie have already been talking, but in case she didn’t say, she’s our part-time web designer and general computer guru I told you about. The one who will help set up your website. It was also her idea for me to take that baking class.”

Cas shoots Charlie a fondly exasperated look and Dean nods again. That explains what Charlie meant by “interfering” earlier, he supposes.

“Um, I hadn’t really thought about a logo yet,” he admits. Hell, until a few weeks ago Dean hadn’t seriously thought about opening his own business at all, but here he is.

“What about something tied to your mom?” Charlie asks. “Like her favorite flower or something?”

Dean blinks. He’s not really sure what his mom’s favorite flower even was. His dad wasn’t really the flower-buying type. Dean feels a sudden sense of loss, knowing that with both his parents gone this is one more thing about them he’ll never know.

Cas’s voice pulls him out of that melancholy train of thought.

“What about those measuring cups you have hanging in the kitchen. Were they your mother’s?”

“Yeah,” Dean admits, surprised and a little embarrassed Cas had noticed the dull, dented metal cups mixed in amongst all the shiny new steel. “I don’t use them here, since I measure everything by weight, but I thought it’d be nice to have something of hers around.”

“Then I think it only fitting they be a part of the Family Business logo. Can you incorporate them somehow, Charlie?”

“Sure. Can I see them?”

Dean moves to the kitchen to fetch Mary’s measuring cups and brings them back to the counter, setting them carefully in front of Charlie with all of the smaller cups nested in the one-cup scoop. 

With Dean’s permission, Charlie snaps a picture with her phone and a few short minutes later, Cas and Dean both watch as Charlie works her Photoshop magic, removing the countertop from the background and with a series of clicks turning the photograph into something more closely resembling a sketch or illustration. After carefully adding the letters “FBB” to the bottom of the largest measuring cup, tweaking various settings until the words look like they were part of the image all along, she spells out the entire name, “Family Business Bakery” to the left of the measuring cups.

“There,” she says, sitting back in her stool and turning the screen to face Dean more fully. “I need to clean it up still, but what do you think about the general idea?”

There’s nothing for it. Dean’s definitely getting teary-eyed this time. He licks his lips and actually fucking sniffles a little before he’s able to answer Charlie.

“It’s perfect. Thanks, Charlie. Thanks…both of you.” Dean looks shyly at Cas, who’s absolutely beaming at him and has the sudden, odd wish that CJ could be here, looking at Dean proudly like that.

For some reason the strange juxtaposition makes Dean feel both slightly uncomfortable and a little sad. He quickly looks back to his new business logo, trying to shake the feelings as he finishes up his work day.

Hours later, Dean is still feeling slightly off-kilter when his phone buzzes with a new message as he’s climbing into bed at the respectable hour of eight o’clock in the evening. Bakersʼ hours. He grins down at the phone before typing out his response. Flirting with CJ is second nature by now, even if Dean’s pretty sure the guy only picks up on it about half the time.

And at least half of _those_ times, Dean’s left wondering if CJ is flirting back.

Before Dean can finish puzzling that connection out, another message comes through.

Ah, shit. There he goes again, just saying shit like that. Like people actually talk to _Dean_ that way. It takes Dean a full minute before his brain can function well enough to begin typing a coherent reply.

Dean swallows. CJ has faith in him? How? Why? No one has ever had faith in Dean before. Well, no one except for Sam, but he’s pretty sure little brothers don’t count. And his mom, but moms _definitely_ don’t count. He doesn’t deserve that kind of devotion. Especially not from someone as funny and kind and clever as CJ.

Dean chortles. Fuck, he loves this snarky asshole.

He blinks.

Nope.

Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope.

Shoving the “L-word” firmly back in its box and slamming the lid closed, he shakes his head defiantly. No, no way. Dean doesn’t… He couldn’t… He’s never even _met_ CJ for crying out loud. There’s no way he could be in… L-word with the guy, right?

It’s just an expression. People say they love things all the time and it doesn’t mean anything. Dean loves lots of things—Sam, his car…pie. Okay, bad examples. He’s pretty sure he loves Baby _almost_ as much as he loves Sam, and Dean and pie have been in a serious, committed relationship since at least 2003.

Still though, he can’t possibly love CJ like _that._ He doesn’t even know what the guy looks like. They’ve sent each other loads of pictures (Dean’s mainly of Cupcake and CJs of random things that annoy him about his brother, like socks on the back of the sofa or keys somehow left on top of the toaster), but never anything that shows their faces.

Besides, how can Dean even be thinking that word about anyone when he spends most of each day trying to fend off inappropriate thoughts about his sexy, sort-of-millionaire boss? Dean would be an outright liar if he tried to deny the absolutely insane levels of attraction he feels toward Cas. It doesn’t help that he’s about 99% sure Cas is at least somewhat attracted to him in return. He’s caught those intense blue eyes lingering on various parts of his body on more than one occasion.

Of course, if Dean’s attraction were just physical, it wouldn’t be so bad. Speaking completely objectively, Cas is a fucking knock-out. Dean would have to be blind (and deaf, because sweet mother of pie, that _voice_ ) not to notice. And having feelings for someone he can’t see or touch or even have goddamn phone sex with? That’s bound to create some pent-up sexual energy that’s just looking for a whiskey-voiced, sex-haired outlet. But unfortunately, it’s not just that and Dean knows it.

Cas is sweet. And generous. And thoughtful. Dean still gets a little choked up when he remembers the way Cas not only noticed Mary’s old measuring cups hanging up in the kitchen, but immediately realized how important they must be to Dean and suggested making them a part of his logo. This entire job, Dean’s entire future, exists because Cas decided to take a chance on some unknown wannabe-baker. And yet Cas acts like _Dean_ is the one doing him a favor.

If it weren’t for the fact that Cas is both his boss and so far out of Dean’s league that attempting an actual conversation with the guy (one that doesn't revolve around baked goods at least) would be like showing up to the World Series with a Wiffle bat, Dean would be a fool _not_ to try and date him.

And, of course, if it weren’t for CJ. CJ, who is also sweet. And generous. And thoughtful. CJ who, in addition to being all of those things, has quickly become Dean’s best friend and the one person in this world who knows him as well as Sam does. CJ, Dean sighs, who is also faceless, nameless beyond two letters that might not even be a part of his real name for all Dean knows, and completely unobtainable.

Hell, they’ve never even spoken on the phone. Not that Dean hasn’t thought about it, but he’s got no clue if CJ would even be interested in moving their friendship offline and, quite frankly, he’s too much of a chicken shit to bring it up. Surely, if CJ were open to that, he would at least have hinted at it by now. Dean can’t bring himself to suggest meeting or even exchanging pictures, but maybe he can give CJ an opening and see what he does with it. Test the waters.

Dean bites his lip nervously as he waits, hoping against hope that CJ will answer his question with a picture and give Dean the sign he needs that the other man is interested in taking their relationship a step further.

As he’s waiting, Cupcake slinks her way into the bedroom, jumping up onto the bed and flopping down on top of the phone resting on Dean’s stomach.

“Hey, I’m talkin’ to CJ here,” Dean protests. “You should be nice to him. He saved your little orange, furry ass.”

Licking a long stripe down her own leg, the kitten looks decidedly unimpressed, until the sudden buzzing of Dean’s phone causes her to jump up and hiss, digging her claws into the meat of Dean’s t-shirt covered belly.

“Goddammit, Cupcake,” he huffs, lifting the kitten in one hand while scooping up his phone with the other.

Damn. No picture. Dean sighs and lowers Cupcake back down to his stomach, stroking her gently as she rubs her face against his hand in a way that expresses both her appreciation and a demand for more.

For a moment, he thinks about just sending his own picture in response to CJ’s question, but decides that would be pretty presumptuous since CJ decided to answer his own with text. He’s probably pushed their boundaries enough by asking in the first place. The last thing he wants to do is make CJ uncomfortable, or even worse, make him feel pressured to send Dean a picture when he clearly doesn’t want to.

Dean decides not to mention the freckles. The last thing he needs is CJ picturing him like that kid from _The Sandlot_.

Dean snorts, ignoring the way his heart quickens pace at CJ calling him beautiful. He doesn’t mean it like that. It’s just a joke, for fuck’s sake. 

Cupcake looks equally unenthused with his theatrics, lifting her head to look at him with clear disdain.

“What?” Dean asks her. “He’s funny.”

“Mrow.”

Dean decides to take that for agreement.

Dean barks out a laugh, once again startling the kitten, who this time expresses her displeasure by pouncing on Dean’s face.

“Ow! Get off, you fluffy fleabag,” he hisses, shoving at the kitten, though he only pushes her as far as his chest.

As soon as Dean hits send, he knows he’s going to regret asking that question. He loses himself in Cupcake’s purring as he waits for CJ’s answer.

Dean blushes and buries his face in the soft fur of the kitten-turned-internal-combustion-engine on his chest.

Groaning, Dean repositions the kitten on his chest until they’re nose-to-nose.

“How am I _not_ supposed to L-word him when he says shit like that, huh?”

“Mrow,” answers Cupcake sympathetically, bumping her tiny pink nose against his in what he can only assume is a show of kitten solidarity.

Dean’s sleep that night is filled with strange dreams of CJ’s words being said to him in a deep, gravelly voice, by someone with brown hair and stunning blue eyes…someone who looks a whole lot like Cas.

[ ](https://i.imgur.com/7a1pSNg.png)

“That will be eleven seventy-three,” Castiel tells the woman with the vibrant, rainbow-dyed hair. “Can I have a name for your cup?”

“Amanda,” she answers immediately, iridescent rainbow locks shimmering in the overhead lights. Castiel smiles as he writes her name in silver Sharpie on the dark brown paper cup before passing it off to Linda. Pulling one of the small sheets of parchment paper from the box on the back counter, he uses it to retrieve Amanda’s honey vanilla glazed croissant from the display case before wrapping the “to go” order in a small paper bag with _The Sweet Bean_ and _Family Business Bakery’s_ logos on it.

“Here you are,” he says, handing her the bag with another smile. “And good choice. This one’s my favorite.”

The croissants hadn’t actually been a part of the opening menu Dean had planned for his baking debut, but when he discovered Castiel’s fondness for Gabe’s honey vanilla ice cream, he’d made a last minute addition, even having Charlie place the honey order with the same local beekeeper Gabe orders from in order to keep it a surprise. Castiel knows it’s Dean’s way of thanking him, which is entirely unnecessary, of course, especially since it’s Dean’s incredible baking that is going to save _The Sweet Bean_ , but it’s sweet nonetheless.

“Oooh, thanks. This is my third one this week,” she confesses with a grimace. “I really shouldn’t have ordered another, but they’re freaking amazing.”

Castiel’s grin widens and he picks up one of the _Family Business Bakery_ cards sitting next to the register. “In that case, please take a card. Our baker, Dean, is also available for catering orders. He makes delicious cookies and gourmet cupcakes if you have any special events or birthdays coming up. You can check out his website for details.”

“Thanks,” Amanda says, expression brightening as she steps to the side to wait for her chai latte. “My best friend’s birthday is in a few weeks. I’ll have to check him out.”

“Can we have a card, too?” one of a trio of college-age girls asks as they step up to the counter. “We’d like to check him out, too.” Turning over the card Castiel hands her to reveal Dean’s picture on the back (something Dean was less than enthused about, but Charlie insisted would boost sales) the girl immediately blushes. “I mean, check _it_ out. The site.”

“Mmm,” Cas agrees, not able to keep himself from tossing her a wink. “Good idea. The website has a bigger picture.” After all, he really can’t blame her. He checks Dean out on a nearly hourly basis. It’s impossible not to.

The girl blushes again but giggles with her friends as they place their iced mocha orders.

Castiel continues working through the rush, taking orders and serving Dean’s pastries as Linda makes a steady stream of lattes, macchiatos, and cappuccinos next to him. They’ve only been selling Dean’s baked goods for a couple of weeks now, but it’s clear that the new additions to their menu are very much appreciated by their clientele. Mornings are always busy for a coffee shop, of course, but they’re easily selling double the number of pastries they used to sell with their coffee and though Castiel rarely works the afternoon and evening shifts any more since he starts work at four in the morning with Dean, the numbers tell him they’ve seen a big uptick in business during those hours as well.

Dean’s already had a few small catering orders, mainly birthday cupcakes and requests for a couple dozen assorted pastries for early morning meetings, which are always made more bearable by free food, but Castiel knows this is only the beginning. He has no doubt Dean will soon be swimming in orders, even as the novelty of their new menu wears off and the surge in _The Sweet Bean’s_ business settles a bit.

Of course, Dean’s had an idea for that too. He suggested that Castiel introduce theme nights at the shop, things that are geared toward the teens and college-age students, all of whom will soon be off for the summer and are well accustomed to drinking large quantities of caffeine in the evenings.

Charlie thought it was a great idea as well, and eagerly signed up to help host their first game night. Dean’s brother Sam had offered to stop by as well, being one of the home-for-the-summer college students Dean had referenced. Sam just finished up his classes at Omaha last week and he’s been a frequent visitor to “ _The Bean_ ,” as some of their younger customers have started nicknaming it, since coming home, stopping by both to visit Dean and Kevin, who as it turns out, is a long-time friend of the younger Winchester.

Almost as if Castiel’s thoughts had summoned him, Sam Winchester steps through the café door, just as the last few customers from their morning rush are filtering out.

“Hi, Cas!” Sam greets with a wide smile, using the nickname he’d picked up from Dean. Castiel finds he likes hearing Sam call him that as well, not perhaps as much as he likes hearing that name in Dean’s deep baritone, but there’s still a sense of comfort and belonging when it comes from Sam that is endearing. Being able to effortlessly pull people into their circle and make them feel included must be a Winchester family trait.

“Good morning, Sam,” Castiel says with an answering grin and a warning glance at Linda, who sniffs.

“Uh, good morning, Mrs. Tran,” Sam says nervously, ducking his head, which is almost comical, given that it still leaves him a good six inches taller than the petite barista.

“Good morning, Samuel,” comes Linda’s crisp response. While seeing Sam up and functional well before midday seems to have somewhat improved Linda’s opinion of her son’s “shiftless layabout” friend, she’s still needlessly hard on the boy. Castiel is fairly certain it’s her way of showing affection. “Out applying for summer jobs, are you?”

“Actually, I’ve already found one,” Sam responds brightly. “I’m going to be working at The Roadhouse, where Dean used to work.”

Linda wrinkles her nose. “Isn’t that a bar?”

“It’s a restaurant too,” Sam immediately defends, adding, “I won’t be working in the bar though. I’ll mainly be bussing tables and washing dishes. And sweeping the floors and whatever else my Aunt Ellen needs done.”

“Your aunt?” Castiel asks curiously. He hadn’t realized it was another family business he’d pulled Dean away from. He wonders if he should feel guilty about that, but can’t quite bring himself to, seeing how happy and successful Dean has been here already.

“Not really my aunt,” Sam answers as Castiel hands him the blueberry muffin he knows Sam was about to order. “She’s an old family friend. Helped us out a lot after my parents passed away.” Castiel’s eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t say anything. He’d known about Dean’s mom passing from their conversation about naming the _Family Business Bakery,_ but this is the first he’s heard about their father. He resists the urge to press Sam for more information. The young man is much more open than his older brother, but as much as he would like to know more about Dean, Castiel will respect the man’s privacy.

Dean seems to be the kind of man who speaks more with actions than words, the honey-glazed croissants calling to Castiel from the pastry display a case-in-point. It’s both endearing and frustrating, since it feels like Dean keeps people at arm's length and Castiel would really like to get to know him better. He can’t help but feel like there is so much more to Dean than meets the eye. Maybe it’s because so many of the things Dean says remind him of D, who is Dean’s opposite in this particular regard.

While both men are always ready with a joke (Dean’s accompanied by a wink and a smirk that cause Castiel’s stomach to somersault), Dean seems to use his humor as a shield, deflecting any personal questions or deepening of conversation. D, on the other hand, has been as generous when it comes to sharing his thoughts and feelings with Castiel as he has been sparing on the more concrete details of his offline life. Both men leave Castiel feeling like he’s only scratched the surface, and he wants _more._

It doesn’t help that Dean seems to be even more reserved in what he shares now than he was when they first met at baking class. Castiel figures it must be because they’re working together now and he certainly needs to respect that. Professional boundaries are a good and necessary thing, especially when one’s coworker looks like the human incarnation of a Greek god. At least he doesn’t have to worry about that with D, though. Intangible though his internet friend may be, he fills Castiel’s days and evenings with conversation, flirting, and laughter.

Mentally shaking himself to dispel thoughts of D, a regular occurrence for Castiel these days, he refocuses on Sam. “That’s great, Sam. Congratulations on the job.”

“Thanks. Dean’s not excited about the idea of me working, but he doesn’t really have a leg to stand on, since he’s been working since he was fourteen.”

“Have you never had a job before?” Castiel asks curiously, telling himself that he’s asking to learn more about _Sam_ and not about Dean, which definitely does _not_ violate his promise to avoid digging into Dean’s personal life.

“Not really.” Sam shrugs. “I tried to convince Dean to let me get a job in high school so we could get a dog or cat, but he wouldn’t let me.”

“You needed to focus on school so you could get that fancy college scholarship of yours,” Dean defends as he walks into the front of the store, a long tray of pastries in-hand to restock the display case that was ravaged by their morning rush. Linda nods approvingly before slipping down the hallway to take her break. “Besides,” Dean adds with a grin for Sam that speaks of an inside joke, “you know I’m allergic to cats.”

“You are?” Castiel asks, unexpectedly disappointed by this news.

“Don’t listen to him, Cas,” Sam says with a fond eye roll. “He’s not allergic to cats. He just doesn’t like them, or so he says,” he adds, casting a significant look at Dean that once again tells Castiel he’s missing the joke. “He used to lie and tell me he was allergic to any kind of animal I wanted for a pet.”

Castiel feels his heart sink further, which is ridiculous. So, Dean’s not an animal lover. What does that matter? It’s not like he’s actually been entertaining the idea of even having a friendship with Dean outside of work, let alone the kind of relationship that would make their pet preferences relevant.

“Hey, those weren’t lies. I could have been allergic. You don’t know.”

“To a goldfish, Dean?”

“Scale dander might totally be a thing.”

Besides, he reasons as the brothers take their playful bickering to a nearby table with a wink and wave to Castiel, not having enjoyed animals in the past doesn’t mean Dean can’t change his mind in the future. Look at D. He had told Castiel early on that he wasn’t “really a cat person,” but Cupcake the kitten clearly has the man wrapped around all four of her little paws, which is beyond adorable. Castiel is thrilled by the never-ending stream of Cupcake videos D sends him, with the kitten in various states of play and sleep. The fact that the videos of Cupcake purring on D’s chest or stomach give him tantalizing glimpses of the man he’s become frankly desperate to see more of is entirely beside the point.

He wonders for the hundredth time since their conversation a few weeks ago, when D asked what he looked like, if he should have suggested they trade pictures. He’d thought about it at the time, but had gotten nervous. Wouldn’t D have asked for a picture if that’s what he wanted? Or at least sent Castiel one, to let him know it was okay? He’d even taken a few selfies with his phone in preparation to send them, but before he could decide which one to send, the conversation had moved on and the moment had passed. Castiel hadn’t been sure how to bring it up again and so continued to languish over the few images he had of D: a t-shirt-clad abdomen here, a demin-wrapped thigh there, the occasional bit of tanned neck or muscular forearm…

It doesn’t help, of course, that D’s generic description of himself could easily be adjusted to match the sandy-brown hair and gold-flecked green eyes of another unbelievably attractive man he knows. The coincidental appearance makes this entire Dean vs. D situation even more confusing, especially during the private moments Castiel steals for himself in the shower when Gabe’s still out doing whatever (or whoever) it is Gabe does in the evenings. Not that Castiel is _trying_ to picture either man, of course not. But he can hardly help where his mind wanders in the moment. He’d tried to avoid the entire situation altogether at first, feeling so guilty about having those kinds of thoughts about his friend and coworker in the first place, let alone _at the same time_ , but the combination of D’s constant flirting and Dean’s constant…looking like _Dean_ , has Castiel more sexually frustrated than he’s been since his early teen years.

Dean’s booming laugh from across the dining room brings Castiel back to himself with a jolt, his face flushing a deep red as he realizes where his mind had wandered at work. When Linda returns from her break a moment later, Castiel escapes the front of the shop, heading for a much needed breather in the kitchen’s walk-in cooler.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, were you disappointed when Charlie didn't accidently spill the beans on our two clueless coffee shop employees? This story is all about making assumptions and our dear Charlie is, of course, operating under the assumption that these two idiots each know who the other is, because... why wouldn't they? It was a close thing, but I'm afraid I'm not done torturing ~~my readers~~ these two lovebirds quite yet.
> 
> Our boys certainly do seem conflicted though, don't they? This chapter was pretty heavy on the introspection and _feelings_ , but I promise more...action *eyebrow waggle* next week! And one of our couples makes some definite forward progress. My question for you is...who do you think it's going to be? Dean and Cas or D and CJ? Let me know in the comments! And maybe I'll do a Twitter poll on it later this week too...🤔
> 
> ****EPISODE DISCUSSION AHEAD - EPISODE-SPECIFIC SPOILERS****  
> Okay, now... my thoughts on the the episode!! If you follow me on Twitter or know me in FB land, you've probably already seen my thoughts so I apologize. If we're not connected there, why not?! Links are below! 😉  
> 1) I know the next US presidential debate is cancelled, but on the chance the last one actually happens, I would like to nominate Mrs. Butters for debate moderator, please.  
> 2) Hell, can we just make her the Republican candidate? Mrs. Butters for president! "Make the bunker safe again!"  
> Okay, so she had a little Stockholm Syndrome and started out a little murdery. Still would 100% prefer her to Trump. She kills Nazis.  
> 3) BAKER DEAN Y'ALL!!! OMC I squealed when I saw that scene!!! DEAN WAS WEARING AN APRON. It's CANON that Dean bakes for his loved ones while wearing a freaking apron!!! It wasn't pink, I know, but baby steps. I'm already trying to figure out a way to work Sam's apron line into this story. IT WILL HAPPEN.


	7. Stir by hand to combine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good Morning, Lovelies!
> 
> I hope you've all had a lovely week and are ready for some more kitten and baking cuteness! Thank you for all of the wonderful comments on last week's chapter! Your predictions were great to read, though I was left wondering how a few of you managed to get a hold of my draft. 😉
> 
> As always, a huge thank you to beta extraordinaire, [EllenOfOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz) and to the immeasurably talented and kind [LadyRandomBox](https://www.instagram.com/ladyrandombox/?hl=en) for her adorable kitten artwork (she's so cute this week, guys!).
> 
> I also promised you this story would earn that big red E today and it does, so be wary of reading this chapter at work!

“Hand me that,” Dean’s deep voice, even rougher at this ungodly hour, pulls Castiel out of his daze as he moves to grab the large sack of flour the baker is gesturing to. He hands off the flour, immediately shifting to fetch the sugar he knows will be asked for next. After all, this is far from the first batch of muffins they’ve made this morning.

Almost, Castiel is regretting his offer to come in early to help Dean prepare for his first large catering order. He can’t quite manage it though, not when Dean looks at him with sleep-mussed hair and a flour smudge on one cheek, rolling out “Thanks, Cas,” in that husky, pre-dawn voice. Plus, he wants his business partner’s first big catering venture to be a resounding success. This order is for the monthly board meeting of one of the largest companies in town and if they’re happy with Dean’s work, it could be a recurring job. And also, the voice thing.

They’ve been working side-by-side for the past two hours, prepping and baking enough pastries to satisfy both Dean’s catering order the shop’s needs for the entire morning, since Dean will be on-site at the catering event. If his catering business picks up like Castiel expects it will, it won’t be long before they have to hire someone else to man the events while Dean stays behind and bakes. In the interim, however, Castiel is happy to help in any way he can.

Fortunately, one of the requested pastries for today’s order are the honey vanilla croissants Castiel is so fond of. They’re time consuming and take multiple days to prepare, but this means all of the croissants were actually rolled out and shaped yesterday afternoon. This morning, they were ready to go straight from the cooler into the proofing oven. Dean has timed everything so the croissants will be ready to transfer into the regular ovens for baking once the last of the muffins have come out. 

Aside from the truly heinous time of day, it’s actually been very enjoyable, working with Dean in the kitchen. It reminds Castiel of those first few weeks of their acquaintance, moving around one another in their small, shared baking class workspace. It turns out that Castiel’s not nearly such a kitchen disaster when he isn’t actually trying to cook anything. He’s pleased to know that he’s more than capable of adequately fetching, pouring, and weighing out ingredients.

Twenty minutes later Dean is carefully lifting the last readied tray of muffins into the waiting oven. Now, all their ovens occupied, they have another twenty minutes until the first batch of muffins is ready to come out, smelling of blueberries and citrus. In the meantime, the two men drag themselves from the kitchen to the front of the shop, because that’s where the coffee lives.

Refilling both of their cups from the single filled decanter (the shop doesn’t open for another hour and a half), Castiel can see the tense lines of Dean’s body as he leans against the counter, his demeanor the complete opposite of his usual casual grace.

“It’s going to be okay, Dean,” he says reassuringly, though it’s difficult to project the confidence he’s going for when he knows his voice sounds like he just rolled out of bed and his eyes are probably still grainy and bloodshot. Who the hell thinks nine A.M. board meetings are a good idea? “We’re ahead of schedule and the smells coming out of the kitchen already have my stomach demanding something more than coffee.”

Dean offers him a half-hearted smile and Castiel wishes there was more he could do to soothe the baker’s nerves.

“I know,” Dean says, sounding like he doesn’t know anything of the sort. “Just can’t help being nervous, I guess. What if something goes wrong and half the pastries burn and I don’t have time to remake them? What if I drop an entire tray on the floor when I’m pulling them out of the oven? What if they get all smushed in their boxes on the way to the catering? What if—”

“They won’t,” Castiel cuts in. “None of those things are going to happen,” he says firmly. “Your pastries are going to taste delicious and they will all make it to that board meeting in pristine condition. You’re going to do great.”

“How do you know?” Dean asks, halfway between petulance and hope.

Castiel shrugs. “I have faith.”

Dean startles, knocking his mug over onto the countertop and spilling a trail of black coffee between them. Castiel jumps at the thud of porcelain on the heavy wood and turns to the sink in search of a cloth to clean up the mess.

“Shit, sorry,” Dean says hurriedly over the sound of tearing paper towels.

“Don’t worry about it,” Castiel assures him. “Are you alright?” For a moment, Dean had looked as though he’d seen a ghost.

“Yeah,” he answers. “You just reminded me of someone there for a minute. I just…wasn’t expecting that…”

Dean’s words trail off as they both turn around at the same time in their attempts to sop up the coffee mess, coming nose-to-nose over the rivulet of coffee dripping steadily onto the floor.

Dean’s face is so, so close and no less attractive for it. From this angle, Castiel has a front row view of every freckle gracing the bridge of Dean’s nose, as well as the flour smudge that still lingers on one perfect cheekbone. Almost on instinct, he feels his hand come up to smooth away the powdery residue, his thumb grazing Dean’s stubbled cheek.

Dean swallows and Castiel’s tongue darts out to wet suddenly parched lips as his heart plays a drum solo behind his ribs.

When Dean’s jade green eyes drop to follow the movement, Castiel finds himself wondering if D’s eyes are a similar shade. The thought hits him like a bucket of ice water and Dean must see something change in his expression, because his own eyes widen in shock. The two of them step away from each other in a move so synchronized it could have been choreographed, each suddenly looking anywhere but the other.

“Dean, I’m…”

“Cas, I’m so sorry, but I can’t,” Dean cuts him off, speaking rapidly.

Castiels’ mouth clicks shut as Dean rushes on. “Look, you’re great, okay? You’re smart, and nice, and one of the most goddamned gorgeous humans I’ve ever seen and I’d be a flat-out liar if I said I wasn’t attracted to you, but I can’t.”

“Because we work together?” Castiel hazards once he finds his voice.

“Yes,” Dean answers, then shakes his head. “No. Maybe? I mean, yeah, that’s part of it, but it’s not just that. I…” Dean licks his lips, dragging a hand across the back of his neck. “There’s this guy.”

“You’re dating someone?” Has Castiel been lusting after an unavailable man all this time?

“No,” Dean answers quickly. “No, I’m definitely single. Believe me, I wouldn’t have let us get anywhere near that close if I weren’t. It’s uh, more of an unrequited thing, but he…I’m…” Dean trails off, gesturing vaguely with the hand that’s not still clutching the back of his neck like a lifeline.

Castiel offers up a lopsided smile. “So head over heels that you can’t help but think about him even when you’re right next to one of the ‘most gorgeous humans’ you’ve ever seen?”

Dean blushes, looking at Castiel with a wince. “So you understand?”

Castiel nods slowly, the twinge of disappointment he feels easily overshadowed by the immensity of his relief. “More than you know.”

He chuckles a little, completely bemused by the fact that even standing inches away from Dean Winchester, Greek god incarnate, his mind is still on a man whose face he’s never even seen. Clearly, Castiel’s situation is even more hopeless than he thought. “Does he know how you feel?” he asks suddenly, realizing that Dean had said his infatuation was also unrequited.

“Nah,” Dean answers, finally dropping down to mop up the almost-forgotten coffee on the floor. Castiel moves to do the same with the dwindling trail on the counter. “I haven’t actually asked him out or anything. It’s complicated. Really complicated,” he adds, standing and tossing the sodden paper towels in the wastebasket.

“You should,” Castiel advises as the rinses out the cloth and washes his hands at the sink. “Anyone who makes you feel like that is worth taking a chance on.” A small voice in the back of his mind taunts him for his complete inability to take his own advice, but he ignores it. It might make him a fraud and a hypocrite, but at the very least, maybe he can help Dean improve his romantic life. One of them should get the chance to be happy with the person they care about.

“Yeah?” Dean asks.

“Definitely.”

Dean nods, looking thoughtful as he takes his turn at the sink. Drying his hands with a clean paper towel, he turns to Castiel with a soft chuckle.

“Just gotta have faith, right?”

“Hey man, thanks again for this morning,” Dean says into the smartphone cradled between his shoulder and ear as he unlocks the trailer door. Correctly guessing that Dean was going to be exhausted after an early morning spent baking double his usual number of breakfast pastries and then running anxiously around the catering site, Cas had insisted that he go straight home afterwards. Dean had argued with him before he left for the catering, but after a long morning spent refilling pastry trays and helping Andy refill coffee decanters between the board’s sign-in and mid-morning break, he can appreciate his boss/business partner’s wisdom. And if they do land this as a monthly gig, Dean is definitely going to have to talk to Cas about hiring someone other than Andy to help out with catering jobs. The kid is friendly enough, but he only has about two functioning states, stoned or jittery as hell.

Though he was taking Cas’ advice and going home, Dean couldn’t resist the urge to call the shop from his truck, to let Cas know how things had gone. Not to mention, he felt a need to make sure things were really okay between them, that their almost-kiss and mutual freak out this morning hadn’t made things weird. Fortunately, Cas, like Dean, seems content to pretend those fifteen minutes never happened and it loosens something in Dean’s chest. Sure, he might be thinking the L-word about CJ, but he still cares about Cas and values both their working relationship and their friendship.

“Of course, Dean. I’m just glad things went well. How did Andy do?”

“Y’know. He’s Andy,” Dean answers as he steps through the door, dropping his duffle on the carpeted floor and chucking his shoes into the coat closet. For once, he’s not completely covered in flour, since he changed at the shop before the catering. He can still feel it under his clothes though, leaving him vaguely grimy and itchy.

“Mmm,” Cas agrees in that deep rumble of his. “I’ll have Charlie write up a job posting and we’ll see if we can find some extra help, even if it’s just someone part-time for catering events. Was the van okay?”

“We made it work, but it would definitely be a lot easier to fit everything in and not have to worry about things falling over without the freezer in there.” Gabe had let them borrow the food truck he uses to sell his ice cream by the scoop at local community events. “It was a life saver though. We never could have hauled all that in my truck or Andy’s Civic.”

“Well, if your catering orders start to take off, it may not be long before we can get a delivery van.”

“You think?”

“I do. And I think we may not have a choice. I bet Charlie could even design car magnets with our business logos that we could put on the sides. It’s a great way to advertise without having to spend the money for a custom paint job.”

“That would be awesome, but do you really think it’s necessary?

“Maybe not necessary, but it would be great advertisement. Sometimes investing a little extra in your business really pays off.” There’s teasing lilt to his voice that tells Dean he’s talking about more than car magnets.

“You sayin’ I’m a good investment, Cas?” Dean asks with a grin.

“I know you don’t believe this, Dean, but you really have saved The Sweet Bean. We were about three months away from closing the doors and now we’re solidly in the black for the first time since Gabe bought the place. So yes, you are an excellent investment.”

Dean shakes his head in bemusement. A couple months ago he could barely afford gas money. The thought of having a business, _his own_ business, to invest in is still surreal.

He’s still trying to come up with some kind of response that might even begin to encapsulate how grateful he is to Cas for giving him this chance when a crinkling sound makes him turn toward the kitchen.

There, sticking out of the open bread bag is a furry, ginger-striped bottom, orange tail swishing triumphantly. Through the clear cellophane, Dean sees Cupcake happily devouring her prey, a thick slice of sourdough.

“Hey, get outta there you fuzzy little terrorist,” Dean shouts from the living room. The barely-still-a-kitten jumps at the sudden noise, but then seeing the perpetrator is just Dean, simply tilts her head at him and licks her nose before turning back to her afternoon snack.

“Fuzzy little terrorist?” Cas’s confused voice buzzes in his ear.

“Nothin,” Dean answers quickly, “just talkin’ to Sam.” He’s far too wiped to go into the story of his reluctant kitten ownership right now, even if he was willing to admit to anyone besides Sam and CJ that he owns a kitten he named “Cupcake” of all things. Sam had teased him for _days_ when Dean finally confessed what he’d named his foster-kitten-turned-permanent-roommate.

“A baker with a cat named Cupcake, Dean? That’s precious.” The sasquatch had chortled as Dean glared daggers at his phone. “I guess I should just be happy you didn’t name her Pie.”

“Pie?” Dean scoffed. “Of course not. That’s a stupid name for a cat.” Somehow, that had just made Sam laugh harder.

Besides, he reasons, he might be yelling at Cupcake, but this is equally Sam’s fault. His brother is the one who left the bread sitting on the counter, still not used to the unwritten, but entirely necessary new house rule of “Don’t leave anything lying out. Anywhere. Ever.”

“Well, I’ll let you go so you can tell Sam about the catering event. I’m sure he’ll want to hear all about it,” Cas says warmly. In truth, Sam is actually gone for the afternoon, already on the way to Ellen’s for his evening shift, the same shift Dean used to work, in fact. He won’t be home until at least eleven. He can’t very well tell Cas that though.

It’s just as well. Cupcake is now looking at Dean smugly through her transparent bread bag shield, apparently realizing Dean isn’t going to make a move to chase her out of the bread while he’s on the phone.

“Yeah, sure,” Dean says, glowering at the orange fuzzball. “Have a good evening, man.”

After hanging up with Cas, Dean stalks toward the countertop. Cupcake scrambles, trying to free herself from the bag without letting go of her prize, her paws scrabbling without purchase on the slick plastic. Scooping her up, Dean pulls her out of the bag, the bread falling to the countertop.

Lifting her up to eye level, he scolds her gently. “You’re gonna make yourself sick, you know that? And I’m not gonna feel sorry for you when you do,” Dean lies, knowing damn well he’d be in full-on panic mode if anything happened to the stupid furball.

Cupcake looks at him with a very feline pout, letting out a sulky “yrow” as Dean sets her down, hoping she didn’t eat too much of the bread before he caught her. He makes a mental note to yell at Sam later.

Stifling a yawn, he makes his way to the bathroom, attempting to dodge the orange menace twining herself around his ankles and doing her damnedest to trip him along the way, probably in retribution for Dean ending her carb binge. It’s not like Dean can blame her. He’s done far worse to people who’ve tried to separate him from his pie before he was finished.

Dean finds himself spending most of his shower in a daze, letting the day’s events sink into his skin with the hot water. His first catering order (aside from the birthday cupcakes he’d made for a customer’s friend a couple weeks ago), had been an overwhelming success. He still can’t quite believe it, but Billie, the admin responsible for organizing and facilitating the monthly board meetings, had assured Dean that not only were the pastries and coffee raved about by the board members, but that he could count on a call next week to schedule for at least the next three months.

He’s actually doing it. He’s a baker. Not only that, he’s a bakery _owner_. Sure, he might not have his own storefront, but that hardly seems to matter. Cas and Gabe haven’t shirked on their promises to promote Family Business Bakery. Every flier, every business card, every little brown paper bag they wrap Dean’s pastries in for their customers features the FBB logo right next to The Bean’s.

How is this his life?

Thinking about Cas inevitably leads to thinking about their…moment this morning again. Finally stepping out of the shower, Dean towels off quickly before wrapping the white terrycloth around his waist. Scooping up his dirty clothes, he replays their conversation as he heads for his bedroom.

_“I have faith.”_

Hearing Cas unknowingly echo CJ’s words from the night before he started work at the coffee shop had felt like a sign from the heavens. It was almost two months ago now, but few enough people have expressed their faith in Dean over the years that he’s damn well gonna remember it when someone does. When he found Cas staring at him like he was about to move in for a kiss, well, Dean wanted it, but it wasn’t Cas he wanted it from. He knew then that as long CJ is in the (metaphorical) picture, there’s no way he could ever start anything with Cas. It wouldn’t be fair to any of them.

Cas had seemed surprisingly okay with Dean’s let down. A little disappointed maybe, but relieved too. Maybe he’d been more concerned about the employer/employee thing than he let on. Or maybe, Dean thinks, remembering Cas’ amused but fervent “more than you know,” Dean isn’t the only one harboring a potentially one-sided flame. Either way, he’s relieved that Cas took the whole thing like a champ. Maybe Cas had just been looking for a little workplace fling, but still, rejection stings and the last thing Dean wants to do is hurt someone who’s been nothing but kind to him.

Ditching the towel for a pair of boxer briefs, Dean doesn’t bother putting anything else on before tugging his phone out of his now discarded slacks and collapsing onto his memory foam mattress, the single most expensive and least regretted purchase of his adult life. It’s only June, but with the heat wave that’s hit this week, it feels more like mid-July.

He feels a headbutt against his ribcage and looks down, grinning as Cupcake sidles up to him.

“Are we good, now?”

Her only answer is to flop down gracelessly along his side, rolling over onto her back and licking at his shower fresh skin with her rough tongue. He’ll take grooming as a sign that all’s forgiven.

It’s an awkward angle, but he brings one hand down to scratch behind Cupcake’s ears as he swipes open his phone and pulls up his DMs with the other, firing off a message to CJ, then immediately wincing when he rereads it and sees how lame it is. Off to a great start, then.

CJ doesn’t respond immediately and for some reason Dean’s suddenly overwhelmed with a panicky feeling that he’s missed his chance. That somehow, on the same day he finally decided to tell CJ he wants to be more than just anonymous internet buddies, the guy has gone out and found someone else.

Dean sighs at the vague non-response. Once again, he gives CJ the opportunity to open up, to share something personal, but he doesn’t. Maybe he’s barking up the wrong tree here after all. He’s all but decided to abandon his plan to fess up to his feelings for his online friend when his phone buzzes with CJ’s next message.

Dean chokes on air. CJ wants to meet him. CJ wants to meet _him_. He stares, open-mouthed, at the phone until a furry tap to his rib cage reminds him that he’s stopped petting Cupcake in his shock. He resumes his scratching as he quickly fumbles out a response.

Dean groans as he re-reads the quick succession of messages. Well, so much for playing hard to get, not that he’d intended to. Naturally, it only occurs to Dean _now_ that CJ might have just meant he wanted them to hang out as friends. He cringes when he sees the next message.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT. He takes a deep breath. Well, it’s now or never. He’s either about to score a date with the guy he’s slowly been falling for over the past four months or he’s going to lose one of the best friends he’s ever had. So yeah, no pressure. Fingers shaking, he types out his answer.

If this was their usual casual flirting, Dean would have added an emoji to the end of that sentence, but this moment feels a little too important for winky faces. So instead, he holds his breath as he waits for CJ’s response.

Dean’s heart plummets when the first message comes through, only to buoy a moment later as the rest follow. His sudden and unexpected laugh earns a startled hiss from Cupcake. Soothing her with more pets, he shakes his head as he writes back to CJ. “Snarky asshole,” he murmurs affectionately.

Dean thinks to himself for a moment about all the things he knows...and doesn’t know about the guy he just agreed to go out with. He decides for once in his life to do the mature thing.

Dean grins. CJ called it a date. It’s officially a date. He hasn’t been this excited over a first date since he asked Cassie out back in junior year.

Dean smiles to himself. Somehow, it’s never even occurred to him that CJ could have been lying during their previous conversations. The guy is just too genuine for that.

Dean’s breath hitches at the knowledge that CJ noticed his “various parts” in all those kitten pictures he’s sent over the past few months and he can’t help but wonder just _how much_ attention CJ may have paid those parts. He bites his lip for a minute, debating on just how far he should push, then decides “fuck it,” and taps his camera app. 

“You mean like this?” Dean says aloud as he types the same a minute later, smirking to himself as the picture he just sent CJ pops up in their message screen. It’s ostensibly a picture of Cupcake, curled up into Dean’s side. Of course, it also just happens to show the entirety of Dean’s bare chest and stomach, defined pectorals and tanned upper abdominals giving way to a bit of softness above the waistband of his boxer-briefs. He’d made sure to include enough of the waistband that it’s clear he’s sitting around in just his underwear, but not the actual underwear themselves. After all, he doesn’t want CJ to think he’s a _total_ perv, or to get the idea that Dean’s just out for a hook-up.

CJ doesn’t seem to mind the picture though, based on his response a moment later.

Dean belts out another laugh, which startles Cupcake so much she leaps to her feet. Shooting him an annoyed look, the feline decides she’s finally had enough of his nonsense and hops down from the bed, off to find somewhere more accommodating to nap. Dean can’t feel bad though. He’s grinning so hard his face hurts. Dean knows he’s a good looking enough guy, but for some reason knowing that CJ finds him attractive is thrilling in a way that’s new. Maybe it’s because this is a side of the guy he hasn’t seen before.

Goddamn is this man adorable. If he’s even half as cute in person as he is over text, Dean is completely screwed.

Dean licks his lips and shifts his hips as his stomach gives a sudden leap. _Fuck_. Dean doesn’t know what he expected to happen when he sent CJ that picture, but opening a Pandora’s box of thirst sure wasn’t it.

Definitely not helping the blushing. How the hell is Dean supposed to look this guy in the face when they go on this date of theirs? Maybe he should take a picture of himself beforehand, just to prove to CJ that his face isn’t permanently this shade of red.

Of course, his face probably goes from red to purple when CJ’s next message pops up, since he stops breathing entirely.

Dean’s mouth falls open as he takes in the attached picture. Like him, CJ is shirtless, the selfie highlighting his naked torso. However, there are a couple of key differences that Dean’s downstairs brain is very quick to note. Whereas Dean had captured the top of his waistband in his photo, CJ’s sharp hip bones and goddamn tantalizing happy trail disappear into the folds of a bright orange bath towel. And while Dean’s picture had shown his charcoal bed sheets behind him, CJ’s muscled biceps and chiseled pecs with their dusky brown nipples are highlighted in front of what looks to be a…Spongebob Squarepants shower curtain?

Dean’s a very confusing mixture of turned on and wanting to laugh, which feels oddly good. For the first few years after their dad died, Dean was so busy trying to take care of Sam and keep their electric on that he didn’t really have time to think about sex, let alone go out and find it. Since Sam went off to college, he’s indulged in the occasional one-night-stand, but laughing or cracking jokes during a random hook-up is generally considered bad manners. This strange combination of arousal and humor feels like its own kind of intimacy and Dean’s relieved that it seems like their usual playful banter will carry over into this new aspect of their relationship.

Dean wiggles on his sheets again as Little Dean takes a serious interest in that picture, innocent childhood cartoon characters be damned. What CJ looks like has never really seemed to matter, but Dean is definitely not disappointed with this new development.

It takes Dean a moment to work that one out, then his mouth drops open and his dick gives an excited twitch at the prospect of CJ touching him.

Dean’s never wanted to kiss someone so much in his _life_ . He chuckles at this giant, absolute, fucking _hot_ dork he’s somehow managed to land.

Okay, so Dean’s a giant, absolute fucking dork as well. He’s not sorry.

Once again, Dean wants to laugh, but instead groans when he realizes that CJ’s about to leave him more than half hard to get into the _shower_ of all places, which means Dean is going to be left imagining water sluicing across those washboard abs, following that happy trail down…down…

_“I will?”_ Did CJ just admit that he’s going to be touching himself in the shower? Touching himself, while thinking about Dean? Dean had been hell bent on _not_ getting off to thoughts of CJ until they’d at least had their first date, but based on the conversation they just had, he’s pretty sure CJ won’t mind. In fact, Dean would bet good money that someday (sooner than later, he hopes), CJ’s gonna ask Dean if he’s ever touched himself while thinking of him and well, Dean would hate to disappoint.

Scrolling through their message history one-handed, Dean cups himself through his black boxer briefs with the other. Finding the picture of CJ’s very naked upper half, he spends another long moment appreciating those firm biceps and broad, muscular shoulders. He can see one forearm in the picture, tanned and covered in dark hair, but CJ’s hands aren’t visible. Dean bets he has good hands though—large, firm, and long-fingered.

He wonders if those hands are running across CJ’s soapy body right now, his thumbs grazing those brown nipples. Dean runs a thumb over his own nipple and shivers at the zing it sends straight to his cock.

From there CJ’s hands would skate down his wet, solid torso, slipping over soaped up abs until they glide along slippery hip bones.

Resting his phone on his chest, Dean trails his fingers along his own hip bones, slipping them underneath the elastic of his briefs, lifting his ass to slide the underwear down his legs and off. Spreading his legs, he imagines CJ wrapping those long fingers around his own cock, wishing they were Dean’s, before he takes himself in-hand.

Dean lets his head fall back against the pillow as he strokes a hand down his hard length. _Fuck_ , he’s already dripping precome and he shudders as he swipes a thumb over his sensitive head to gather it up and ease the slide, wishing it was CJ touching him.

He imagines CJ standing in the shower, forehead braced against the cool tile as he strips his wet cock, thinking of Dean. Before long, he’s picturing himself there with CJ, sucking kisses into the back of his neck before moving down along those meaty shoulders.

He pauses to pull the container of Astroglide out of his nightstand drawer, pouring a little into his hands and rubbing them together before returning one to his cock and using the other to fondle his sack. Moaning at the sensation, his hand picks up speed, the cool lube slicking the way.

He imagines himself tucking a chin over CJ’s shoulder, looking down across that magnificent expanse of skin and muscles as he reaches around to stroke CJ’s cock, every bit as gorgeous as the rest of him. He wonders what CJ will sound like. Will he let out high pitched littler whimpers or breathy sighs as Dean strokes him? Or will he release deep, guttural moans instead? Will he spew a litany of dirty talk, desperate prayers and filthy praise as Dean works his cock?

Dean lets loose his own moan as he feels that coiling spring inside him near its release. The pressure builds as he drops a finger down past his balls, to tease along his hole.

“Oh, fuck,” Dean moans as he dips a finger into his hole, just enough to tease along the sensitive furled rim, imagining how good it’s going to feel when it’s CJ doing this for him.

“Fuck, fuck, fuuu—” his babbling cuts off as fantasy-shower-CJ turns around, looking into Dean’s eyes as he comes, spurting thick, hot stripes across his belly.

Fantasy CJ fades away, crystal blue eyes the exact same shade as Cas’ the last thing to disappear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I'm sure that NSFW scene wasn't exactly _everything_ you've been hoping for, but I do hope it was enjoyable nonetheless. I think both of our "couples" made progress today, even though Cas and Dean's progress might not have been the kind we would have like to see. They definitely made big decision about the nature of their relationship, didn't they? 
> 
> What did you think about the progress our boys made and the path/person they each chose?
> 
> And who would iyou choose, if you were in each of their shoes? Would you choose the hottie standing right in front of you that you definitely have a connection with or the mysterious internet "stranger" who might just know you better than anyone else in your life at this point, even if you've never seen their face? Let me know in the comments!
> 
> Also, that episode! Is a thing...that happened. Not much more I can say without being spoilery. 😂 You can scroll down a few lines for my probably not spoilery thoughts...
> 
> ***EPISODE DISCUSSION BELOW***
> 
> In regards to the overall plot, 15X15 was definitely a disappointment. A few things were said and done that are definitely going to factor in to advancing the overall plot, don't get me wrong, but those are things that felt like they could have also been done in a more meaty episode. It's a little late in the game to have two plot-light episodes back-to-back.
> 
> That said, viewed as a standalone, it has some really GREAT moments. I'm not going to yell about them here, because spoilers, but yeah. My favorite part of the episode, however, wasn't even part of the episode. It was Alex's Instagram story the next day! If you don't know what I'm talking about, I'll just say that according to Alex, Jack would identify his gender as "N." At some point (once I finish writing this fic) you can expect a story from me all about what I think that N means for our precious cinnamon roll!


	8. Add dry ingredients. Stir until just combined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good Morning, loves! It's Monday!
> 
> It is a very Mondayish Monday here, so I am extra glad to be able to share a new installment of this story with you, because it never fails to brighten my day!
> 
> Thanks so much for sharing all of your thoughts and predictions with me after last week's chapter! You all seem pretty evenly divided between "OMG they're gonna MEET," "I smell a trap," and "I have no idea what's going to happen next but I'm pretty certain the waiting is gonna kill me!" 😂
> 
> It also seems like most of you were very happy that our boys both chose their online love interest, even if it did mean we missed out on some steamy bakery action. I still think Dean's kinda nuts for being able to resist a kiss-ready Castiel, but when I tried to write them kissing my brain just went *WRONG WRONG WRONG* so apparently this is the way it was meant to be. 
> 
> Thanks as always to [EllenOfOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz) for her beta brain and to [LadyRandomBox](https://www.instagram.com/ladyrandombox/?hl=en) for her gorgeous arting! And wait till you see today's Cupcake picture, y'all! I swear she gets cuter each week! 😍
> 
> Thank you also to all of you, for continuing on this journey with me! Now, on to the chapter. 💖

“Go ahead and take a look around,” calls the complex manager, Jo, her long blonde ponytail swinging behind her as she ducks back out of the apartment door. “I’m going to grab some paperwork and I’ll be right back in.”

Nodding, Castiel steps through to the entryway of the modest, but cheerful apartment. He opens a door immediately to his right and finds a large coat closet that probably also makes up the majority of the apartment’s storage.

Closing that door, he checks the next to find the apartment’s single bathroom. Stepping inside, Castiel runs fingertips over the clean, white subway tile before testing the brushed nickel faucets in the sink and bathtub. He releases a pleased hum as the shower heats up quickly, the large, modern-looking showerhead putting out a steady stream of water. As much as he’s looking forward to moving out of Gabriel’s apartment, he would have been sad to sacrifice such fantastic water pressure.

After months of scrimping and saving on his barista salary, Castiel is still light-years away from being able to afford anything even remotely resembling his previous lifestyle, but his recent conversation with D and the subsequent shower which was spent imagining himself biting marks into the softness above that taunting waistband before coming across that broad, chiseled chest were all it took to convince Castiel that it’s time to find a place of his own. He can’t very well fuck D into his air mattress, after all. Or vice versa.

Castiel hadn’t realized just how sexually frustrated he’s been, feeling torn between his feelings for D and his lust for Dean these past few months until he decided to focus all of his attention on just one of the men and finding out said man apparently feels the same way about him. D’s admission seems to have opened a floodgate of desire in Castiel and he’s more than eager to have a proper bedroom to take the man apart in.

Of course, he’ll first have to buy a proper  _ bed _ for that room, but he should be able to afford that, thanks to Dean. When he overheard Castiel complaining to Charlie about how hard it is to find an affordable apartment in the city, he immediately pulled out his phone and offered up his friend Jo’s number. Castiel hadn’t mentioned why he was looking for a new place to Dean. After all, Dean doesn’t even know he’s living with Gabe. When they met, he’d figured a job proposition from a put-together business manager would probably be more appealing than one from a recently unemployed and homeless glorified barista. Now, given their recent almost-kiss, he’s certainly not about to admit the real reason he can no longer live with his brother. 

When Dean had asked why he was moving, Castiel had blushed and mumbled something about wanting to get out of his current roommate situation. Charlie had snickered and shot him a knowing look, but blissfully hadn’t ratted him out. She’s been after him to ask Dean out for weeks now. Castiel hasn’t told her about his ongoing friendship or upcoming date with D, of course, and not only because she’d be unbearably smug about her “interference” paying off after all. Charlie has lectured him about online safety more times than he can count and he’s sure she’d be less than thrilled to learn he’s developed such a romantic attachment to someone he knows so little about, even if she was the one who tried to set him up with the guy in the first place. He imagines she probably expected him to get at least a last name before falling head over heels, but getting D’s last name would have meant supplying and explaining his own and  _ that _ is a conversation he would much rather have in person. No, he’s much better off waiting until after their date to say anything to his best friend.

For his part, Dean had just barked one of those booming laughs of his and clapped Castiel on the shoulder, saying if living with his roommate is anything like living with Sam and his burrito gas, he gets it.

As close a call as that moment had been for Castiel’s ego, he’s incredibly grateful Dean hooked him up with Jo. Jo Harvelle manages a series of older apartment buildings that have been renovated to be more up-to-date, but lack a lot of the bells and whistles in the newer complexes like Gabe’s, bringing their price point down to something Castiel can (mostly) afford. It’s still going to be tight, but much more manageable than the apartments he’d been looking at in Gabriel’s neighborhood.

Water pressure may be a necessity, but Castiel is more than willing to sacrifice hardwood floors and granite countertops for $300 less per month. It’s interesting, just how little he actually misses the luxuries from his former life. When he’d first learned that all of his accounts had been frozen thanks to his father and brothers’ complete lack of business ethics, he’d been terrified. As grateful as he was that he seemed to have been categorized more as a victim than an accomplice in his family’s crimes, knowing that all of his finances tied to the Novak estate would probably never be seen again had seemed insurmountable. Looking back now, Castiel feels ashamed over how despairing he’d been to leave behind his luxury apartment and all its amenities.

He was nothing but a self-absorbed yuppie…douchebag, as D would say. He wonders what D will think when he learns the full story of Castiel’s past. He thinks that’s probably part of the reason he’s been so reserved in what he shares about his offline life during their conversations. The more he learns about D, the more Castiel worries that D will realize he’s just a shallow, pathetic former trust fund brat who couldn’t even make a box of macaroni and cheese until recently.

A peek into what he thought might be a linen closet reveals a stacked washer and dryer. How could he ever admit to D, who’d actually spent a few years living out of his father’s old car or whatever hotel they happened to be driving past after they’d lost his father’s garage, that he was thirty years old before he learned how to use a laundromat?

The apartment’s only bedroom is directly across the hall from the bathroom. Castiel walks across the room, carpet cushioning his steps, unlike the faux-wood laminate throughout the rest of the apartment. The bedroom isn’t overly spacious, but it’s large enough to accommodate a king-size bed and a dresser or two. The far wall has a large set of sliding glass doors, which open to a balcony that’s shared with the living room. The view isn’t anything particularly impressive, mainly showcasing other apartments, but the glass doors let in plenty of natural light.

Making his way back through the short hallway and into the open living/dining/kitchen area, he frowns thoughtfully at the space in the center with a set of hanging pendant lights clearly indicating where a dining room table should go. It’s going to be quite some time before he’s able to afford a table. He’s hopeful that he might be able to afford at least a sofa for the living room, though he’ll probably be watching Netflix on his computer for a while instead of on a TV.

When he’d first left behind his furnished apartment in Chicago, he’d considered it something of a blessing that he hadn’t had to deal with moving, storing, or selling his furniture and appliances. Now, however, he thinks about how useful it would be to have a storage unit full of furniture, instead of just a corner of Gabriel’s apartment complex storage stacked with boxes of clothes and old comic books from his teenage years he hadn’t been able to bring himself to discard.

He’s checking out the kitchen’s mid-range appliances and classic white cabinets when Jo returns, setting a manila file folder on the brown and gray faux-granite countertop.

“Whatd’ya think?” she asks with a friendly smile.

“It’s perfect,” Castiel replies simply. And it is. Signing his name to the lease agreement Jo reviews with him in detail, Castiel feels prouder of this modest apartment he’s about to rent using money he  _ earned _ through his own hard work, than any of the supposed accomplishments he made or the extravagances he was able to afford thanks to his family’s money and connections. Castiel doesn’t think he’s ever had anything of value that was truly his before. Everything he owned, everything he  _ was _ , belonged to the Novaks. He may not have done this entirely on his own, but it’s still  _ his _ .

Once Castiel has signed his lease and handed over his check (and he can’t help but notice that she waits until  _ after _ he’s committed to living in this apartment for the next year), Jo’s friendly smile turns shark-like.

“So,” she says casually, “you’re a friend of Dean’s, huh? I’m surprised I’ve never met you before. I know most of Dean’s friends.” She snorts. “Actually, I  _ am _ most of Dean’s friends. Well, me and Benny. He works too much to make any others.”

“Actually, work is kind of how we met,” Castiel explains. He wonders offhandedly if this  _ Benny _ is Dean’s unrequited love interest. For some reason he can’t quite explain, the thought irks him. “Dean does all of the baking for the coffeeshop I manage.”

“Oh, so  _ you’re  _ the one that stole him from my mom,” Jo says with a grin. “Well, I can see the appeal. You can definitely offer Dean things the Roadhouse can’t.”

Castiel hesitates, trying to figure out if Jo is making a double entendre or if she’s just talking about the business opportunities working with Castiel has created for Dean. Not really not sure what to do about it either way, he decides to focus on another part of her comment instead.

“Ah, your mother owns Harvelle’s Roadhouse? That would make her Ellen, correct?”

“Yeah,” Jo’s smile brightens. “Dean’s told you about her?”

“Well, more Sam than Dean,” he confesses and Jo offers a fond eye roll that speaks to her long-time connection with the Winchesters. Castiel can certainly feel that sense of family Sam had conveyed when he spoke of Ellen.

“Figures,” she nods. “Dean’s not exactly a chatty Cathy. We do miss him though. Do me a favor and tell him he needs to stop by and say hi to his old family more often.”

“I will,” Castiel promises. “I would say I’m sorry I stole him, but I really can’t be. Dean’s baking has really saved our shop. He’s an incredible asset.”

Jo snorts again. “Yeah, I bet he is.”

This time Castiel is fairly certain she’s twisting his words into an innuendo.

“Dean is a wonderful baker and a charming person, but I assure you, we’re just friends and coworkers. I, um, I’m actually seeing someone else,” he stammers, his heart thudding in his chest. This is the first time he’s described he and D’s relationship that way and it gives him a thrill, never mind the fact that they haven’t actually  _ seen _ one another yet…well, one another’s faces that is.

Jo stares at him for a moment, her light brown eyes weighing him carefully.

“Hmm,” she eventually answers. “That’s too bad. I could have sworn Dean was seeing someone, too. The last two times I’ve seen him, he’s been glued to his phone. I thought maybe it was you, but I guess not.”

Castiel keeps his face neutral. He knows that Dean is at least seriously interested in someone, but Jo won’t learn that from him. He’d also noticed how often Dean seems to check his phone at work, while he’s on a break or in-between batches of muffins or scones, but he hadn’t known it was unusual behavior for the man. Not that Castiel can judge, of course, given that he spends virtually every free moment with his phone in his hand.

For a crazy moment, his mind imagines that D is really Dean, that all this time he’s been messaging the gorgeous baker in the next room, and he laughs at himself before dispelling the thought. No, life is never that simple, and besides, D is more than worthy of Castiel’s affection on his own. Castiel doesn’t need him to be anyone other than who he is.

As he drives home from his new apartment, Castiel takes a moment to be thankful for at least one of his brothers. The Sweet Bean won’t be able to pay him an actual store manager’s salary for a bit longer yet, but when Gabe learned he was apartment hunting, he insisted upon giving him a bonus for finding “that baker to save my soft, doughy ass” that Castiel knows came from his personal account. Neither of them commented on the fact that the bonus just happened to be enough to cover a security deposit and first and last month’s rent on most one-bedroom apartments in the area.

He reminds himself of this fact as he steps into Gabe’s apartment and hears his brother’s greeting.

“Cassie! So, did you find a place to do the dirty with your new internet boy toy? Is there good lighting? Plenty of space to set up the camera?” Gabe waggles his eyebrows.

His brother sneaking up behind him and reading one of his conversations with D over his shoulder ranks right up there with the moment his father walked out of his office in handcuffs, flanked by federal agents, as one of the worst moments of Castiel’s life. 

Okay, maybe he’s being a little overdramatic.

“Did you check how thick the walls are? Because I don’t think my bathroom here is as soundproof as you seem to think it is.”

Or maybe not.

“Gabriel. I did not ‘check how thick the walls are.’ This apartment isn’t going to be a porn studio. It’s going to be my home.”

“It can’t be both?”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “We don’t all aspire to live in a den of iniquity.”

“Why  _ not _ ?” Gabe asks incredulously, pausing with a spoonful of cereal halfway to his mouth. It’s nearly lunchtime, which means it’s breakfast time for his brother, who has probably just rolled out of bed.

“Finish your Cocoa Puffs.” Castiel rolls his eyes, wondering not for the first time, how he can possibly be the youngest brother.

“But you  _ do _ plan to give Big D the  _ big D _ , right?” Gabe asks around a mouthful of puffs.

Sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose, Castiel glares daggers at Gabe as he sets his keys in the key tray, which is naturally empty, given that Gabe’s keys are probably on top of the refrigerator or inside the washing machine.

“I do hope that  _ eventually _ D and I will become…physically intimate, but I can promise you with one hundred percent certainty that I will  _ never _ refer to it as ‘giving someone the  _ big D _ .ʼ”

“Got you to say it, though. Of course, I didn’t mean to imply that it has to be  _ you _ doing the giving. It’s perfectly okay if you’re the one getting D’s D,” Gabe chortles. Really, would it have been too much to ask that Castiel be an only child? His charitable thoughts from earlier are quickly eroding away, the more time he spends talking to Gabe about D.

“D and I haven’t even been on a date yet. We still don’t know any identifying details about the other. I think it’s a little soon to be having conversations about preferred sexual positions. And it will  _ always  _ be too soon to be having this conversation with my brother.”

“Party pooper. Really though, I’m just happy you might be getting some from somewhere. You’re way too uptight, Cassie. It’s not good for the constitution. If anyone needs to unwind and let loose a little, it’s you. Honestly, I’m a little surprised you’re not schtupping Deano already. The way you two eye-fuck all the time, I thought for sure you were gettin’ some free samples of those buns.” Gabe waggles his eyebrows as Castiel nearly trips over his own feet in shock.

“Dean and I do  _ not _ ‘eye-fuck,’” he protests weakly.

Gabe snorts. “Oh, please. I thought I was gonna have to start checking IDs at the door and charging a cover fee for that X-rated content you’re puttin’ out.  _ Children _ visit that coffee shop, you giant perv,” Gabriel chides with a proud grin.

Castiel groans and flops onto the barstool next to Gabe at the island countertop, burying his head in his folded arms.

“C’mon, Cassie,” his brother soothes with a pat to his back. “There’s no shame in appreciating the hot baker’s goodies. Even I can tell the guy is downright fuckable and I’m at least ninety-three percent straight.”

Resolutely refusing to inquire about the remaining 7%, Castiel sighs in defeat.

“Fine. Yes, I find Dean attractive. Very attractive,” he amends at Gabe’s disbelieving eyebrow lift. “And he’s attracted to me as well. But we’re not ‘schtupping,’ nor do we have any intention of doing so in the future. We’re both interested in other people.”

Gabe sighs, turning uncharacteristically serious for a moment. “Alright, fine. Just…be careful, okay? Don’t go wrapping up your heart and serving it to your mystery guy  _ à la carte _ just yet. Like you said, you barely even know the guy.”

Castiel smiles. “I know enough.”

He’s still smiling twenty minutes later when, Gabe finally having left him to his own devices, he messages D and begins making plans for their date.

“Maybe I don’t know what his face looks like or where he works, but I know the important things, Sam,” Dean growls out in frustration as he gathers up the dirty laundry from Sam’s room, tossing it into the laundry basket perched on his hip.

“Like his last name?” Sam snarks back and Dean glowers at him, suddenly wishing CJ would have waited to ask him out until Sam had gone back to school next month.

“I know  _ him _ . That’s all I need to know.”

He strides down the hallway, carrying the laundry basket until he reaches the washer and dryer, which occupy a small alcove between the kitchen and Dean’s bedroom, disturbing Cupcake, who’s sunning herself in the light streaming in through the glass panes in the back door directly across from the laundry area. Setting the laundry basket on top of the dryer, Dean ignores her plaintive yowl as he yanks the detergent down from the shelf above, agitatedly measuring and pouring the liquid into the washing machine basin while trying to ignore the presence of the six-foot-four sasquatch next to him.

Naturally, he hadn’t  _ meant _ to tell Sam about CJ, but ever since they finalized plans for their date last week, Dean has become increasingly nervous with each passing day. And when he’s nervous, Dean cleans. The entire trailer is spotless, scrubbed ceiling to floor in Dean’s pre-date jittery scourge. The Sweet Bean is much the same. In fact, he still owes Kevin an apology for snapping at him when he asked Dean why he’d torn through half their entire monthly cleaning list in two days.

Of course, Sam had noticed. At first, he didn’t actually say anything, settling for a questioning eyebrow raise and puppy dog eyes that Dean determinedly ignored. He knew it wouldn’t last though and he was right. After the first few days, Sam started picking at him, methodically pressing each and every one of Dean’s buttons the way only a younger brother could, until he snapped.

“I have a date, okay?” he’d finally roared at Sam, the teenager’s triumphant smirk turning quickly into one of joy, at least until he’d pried who the date was with out of Dean.

“Look, I’m not saying you shouldn’t meet this guy. Clearly you care about him a lot. I’m just saying that maybe you should exchange some personal info first. Maybe trade pictures. That way I have something to show the cops when they need one for the missing person poster.” Sam reaches down to scratch Cupcake behind the ears.

“I know what he looks like,” Dean grouses.

“‘Last seen with a man who  _ says _ he’s six-feet tall and has dark hair and blue eyes’ probably isn’t going to be very helpful to the investigation,” Sam answers petulantly and damn, apparently he told Sam more about CJ than he realized.

“I do know what some of him looks like for sure. He’s definitely got the complexion and the dark hair. We’ve traded pictures, just not of our faces.”

“Gross, Dean.”

“Not like  _ that _ , you perv,” Dean retorts, but he knows his face is turning red. He and CJ hadn’t veered into the territory of semi-naughty selfies again so far, but that same sexual tension that had fueled their conversation almost two weeks ago seems to be an ever-present background to their messaging now.

“I really am glad you found someone you like this much, Dean. I just think you shouldn’t go putting all your trust in this guy until you actually meet him. I know he seems great, but he could be totally catfishing you.”

“Well,” Dean answers as he pulls the clean towels he’d washed earlier out of the drier. “There’s only one way to find out for sure, isn’t there?”

“I guess,” Sam sulks. “I still don’t see why you couldn’t have just dated Cas instead. He’s really great and he’s clearly into you. I can tell that just by the heart eyes he throws your way every time the two of you are in the same room. It’s disgusting.”

Dean rolls his eyes, setting the basket of towels on the kitchen table and running a hand over his face before he turns to his brother. “First of all, Cas thinking I have a pretty face doesn’t mean he’s ‘into me.’ It just means he has good taste,” Dean grins and now it’s Sam’s turn to roll his eyes. “Second of all, there’s a whole list of reasons why Cas and I wouldn’t work out.”

“Such as?”

Dean picks up the first towel, shoving it at Sammy to fold as he reaches for another for himself. If the giant oaf is gonna stand there and interrogate Dean, he can at least make himself useful. Cupcake helps in her own way, rubbing her face against Dean’s jean-clad legs and Sam’s bare ones, because like the giant dork he is, Sam actually wears  _ shorts _ in the summertime.

“One, Cas is my boss. Workplace relationships in general are a bad idea, but boss and employee? Extra terrible.”

Sam frowns as he folds his towel.

“He’s not exactly your boss, Dean. You bake for the shop and you guys put out joint catering orders together, but it’s not like he tells you what to do. You created your own schedule and you do all the inventory and ordering for the bakery now. You’re basically just a bakery running out of The Sweet Bean’s kitchen. You’re more like business partners than employer and employee.”

“But I’m officially on The Bean’s payroll,” Dean points out. 

Sam shrugs. “So? If you’re worried about it, ask Gabe to figure out what he would charge you to sub-let his kitchen and then they can take you off payroll as a barista, pay you that amount for their bakery orders and you can pay them back the money to rent the kitchen space. The way your business is picking up, you could even get your own business license and insurance soon and then you really would be two separate businesses.”

Dean pauses mid-fold, because that’s actually not a bad idea. And is probably something he should look into doing anyway. Stupid baby brothers and their stupid pre-law classes. Without a way to refute Sam’s point, he goes on.

“Two, Cas comes from a completely different world, man. He’s a  _ Novak _ for fuck’s sake. The guy and I can’t possibly have anything in common. I used to work on cars. He used to be driven around in them. What the hell would we even talk about on a date? And just look at this place, Sam. Like I could bring a guy like  _ that _ here?”

“ _ Used to _ , Dean. Cas  _ used to _ be driven around in cars and stuff. Now he’s just an ordinary guy. It doesn’t matter what his past is or what yours is. And you might have more in common than you think, if you’d just take the time to get to know him.”

Setting his newly folded towel on top of the stack in front of him, Dean lays out his third and final point.

“Third, Cas is great. But he’s not CJ.”

Sam’s eyes widen in surprise beneath the shaggy curtain of hair falling into his face. He runs a hand through it as he answers. “Wow. You  _ really _ like this guy, don’t you?”

“Yeah, Sam. I really do.”

“Alright,” Sam says, holding his hands up in defense. “I won’t say anything else. After all, who am I to stand in the way of  _ twu wuv,” _ he adds in a nasally voice.

Dean points at him, “If you start with the ‘mawwaigeʼ speech, I’m gonna cover you with catnip while you’re sleeping and lock Cupcake in your room.”

“Jerk,” Sam answers with a grin.

Dean rolls his eyes fondly as he picks up another towel.

“Bitch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, how was the chapter? Oooh, you mean, you thought the date would be THIS week? Oops? Hmm...For today's question of the day, what are you throwing at your author? 
> 
> *Ducks as readers throw things*
> 
> I'm sorry, okay?? The things that happened in this chapter _needed_ to happen for...reasons. 
> 
> Next week...I believe there's supposed to be a date of some sort?
> 
> ***Putting some space here because this next part gets mildly spoilery for 15X16***
> 
> And speaking of seemingly needless side plots... *Side eyes SPN writers*
> 
> Does anyone have anything positive to say about the episode? I will say that this is the easiest I think we've ever seen Dean talk about his feelings and admit to any kind of perceived weakness or difficulty. No prying, no big Moment beforehand, just him immediately acknowledging how much that one thing messed him up when they were kids and how scared he was/is. Granted, I'm pretty sure we didn't need an entirely pointless MOTW side hunt to get us there, but whatevs.


	9. Do not overmix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good Morning, Lovelies!!
> 
> Today's very early posting (it's only been Monday here for about an hour) is brought to you by your author's anxiety-induced insomnia!
> 
> Thank you so much for all your lovely comments last week (some of you are VERY good guessers, btw) and for sharing your wonderful thoughts about the episode! You actually did make me feel better about it, as did watching 15X17, but more (MUCH more) on that in the end notes.
> 
> As always, thank you to the brilliant and clever [EllenOfOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz) for making this readable and to [LadyRandomBox](https://www.instagram.com/ladyrandombox/?hl=en), who once again has brought that rascally kitten to life with her adorable artwork!
> 
> Also, there's no way I can write to you today of all days and not remind those of your who live in the US to VOTE if you have not already done so! Vote today or vote tomorrow, but VOTE. If you've received an absentee ballot, even if you live in a state that accepts ballots that are postmarked by or on Election Day, unless you have no other option, PLEASE DO NOT mail it now. Our postal service is experiencing such extensive delays right now that it may not arrive in time to be counted. If you're able, drop it off in-person.
> 
> Okay, now you may read on, friends! 💖

Dean strides into the Roadhouse _,_ trying to fake a confidence he certainly doesn’t feel. He’s still not sure what possessed him to suggest that he and CJ meet _here_ of all places, but he has to admit that the familiar smells and sounds of the place that’s been nearly a second home to Dean since he first started bussing tables here at fifteen have his shoulders relaxing before he’s even made it to his favorite table—a booth in the back corner, next to the kitchen.

CJ had warned Dean he’d be coming straight from work and would probably be starving. Knowing the guy’s fondness for a good burger, he’d blurted out that he knew a place with the best burgers in South Dakota. CJ had immediately challenged him to prove it, refusing to be deterred when Dean tried to backpedal and suggest somewhere else, implying that Dean was afraid to put his meat where his mouth was. After that, he didn’t really have a choice but to follow through and set up their date at the Roadhouse _. _

Now, as the sounds of the classic rock Ellen always keeps on washes over him and he looks around the Saturday night dining room, half-empty now that the dinner rush is over and the bar rush hasn’t quite picked up, Dean knows why he picked the Roadhouse after all. Because this place, this tired old dive with its torn vinyl seats and low lighting, where you can hear kids laugh and squeal during the dinner hour and old drunks tell dirty jokes and play Johnny Cash on the jukebox at midnight, this place is Dean. It’s as much a part of him as Baby, as Sam, as his bakery. A little rough around the edges, but full of light, and laughter, and love.

“Hey there, Deano, didn’t expect you to show your pretty, freckled face around here again,” purrs a sultry voice next to Dean’s ear. “Did you miss me that much or did you finally get tired of playing easy bake oven?”

Well, filled with light, laughter, love…and Meg.

“Easy bake oven…isn’t that what they called you in high school?” Dean smirks as Meg leans one hip casually against the table, arms folded in front of her.

“Should I tell Ellen the prodigal son has returned?” She turns to fetch Dean’s former boss and pseudo-aunt, but he stops her with a hand on her arm.

“Uh, no. I’m actually meeting someone here,” Dean admits, willing himself not to blush. As Meg’s eyebrows raise and her eyes drop to the hand still on her arm, he jerks it away as if burned, using it to rub the back of his neck sheepishly instead.

Meg settles back against the table, a wicked grin curling at the corners of her mouth. “Well, isn’t this interesting? You meeting your Tinder hook-ups here now, Winchester?” she adds as Dean’s face flushes a deeper shade of burgundy than the sticky vinyl beneath him.

“I didn’t meet him on Tinder,” he mumbles, still red-faced at just how close Meg’s question comes to the actual way he and CJ met.

“Grindr, then,” Meg smirks evilly. “Classy.”

“I didn’t meet him on Grindr either. It’s not like that.” Dean glowers.

“Oh, so this is  _ serious _ .” Meg looks delighted, which does  _ not _ bode well for Dean. “So, who’s this mystery guy, then? Someone you met at the new job, or did you actually go and develop a social life when you ditched us?”

“I didn’t ditch you,” Dean argues. “I just got a new job. Jesus. Stow your fucking daddy issues for a minute. And no, I didn’t meet him there. And  _ no _ , I’m not gonna tell you how I did meet him, so you can give that idea up as fast as you gave up your virginity in the back of that station wagon freshman year.”

“Daddy issues? You’re one to talk,” Meg snorts, but blissfully, she drops that line of interrogation for the moment. “Does this not-a-Grindr-hook-up of yours got a name, or should I just look for the only lone guy to come in not wearing a trucker hat?” She makes a face. “He won’t be wearing a trucker hat, will he? You don’t look like the type to be into bears.”

“For Christ’s sake, Meg,” Dean growls. “No, he won’t be wearing a trucker hat. And his name’s CJ.”

“CJ? What’s that stand for?”

“It stands for none-of-your-goddamn-business, that’s what,” he grumbles, because there is absolutely nothing in Hell, Heaven, or Purgatory that could make Dean admit to this she-demon that he doesn’t have the first damn idea what those initials stand for. The longer this conversation goes on, the more he’s regretting both his choice to bring CJ here and their decision to wait until they meet in person to reveal any identifying details about themselves.

“Fine. Touchy,” Meg observes with a pleased smirk. “You want a drink while you wait? You look a little tense,” she adds innocently and Dean reminds himself that he doesn’t hit girls, or whatever kind of tentacled, snake-haired, she-monster Meg is.

Taking a deep breath, he orders his beer and places the drink order CJ had given him, knowing Dean would almost certainly arrive at the Roadhouse before him.

He’s barely had a moment to relax against the cool vinyl of the booth seat when a blonde ponytail and teasing smile that’s only slightly more welcome than Meg’s plop down across from him. Dean curses himself for taking the seat against the wall instead of the one facing it, which would have hidden him from view of the rest of the restaurant. It’s not like sitting here is going to make it any easier for CJ to spot him, since the guy doesn’t even know what he looks like.

“Hey Dean,” Jo greets warmly. “Been wondering when we’d see you around here again.”

“I was just in here for dinner with Sam a couple weeks ago, Jo.” Dean sighs and reminds himself that appearances to the contrary, his family actually is happy for him. And proud.

Comments about Dean leaving are really their way of saying they’re glad he got out. Ellen and Jo have been pushing him to do something else for years now. Doesn’t keep him from feeling guilty though.

“Yeah, but before that you were here every day. Never thought I’d miss your ugly mug, but it definitely makes the roach-motel-chic décor of this place look better by comparison. Without you around, Mom might have to finally break down and redecorate.”

“Aww, you miss me. That’s so cute,” Dean sing-songs in a baby voice as he leans forward and tousles Jo’s hair affectionately, laughing as she scowls and pulls down her ponytail, having to redo it now that several strands of hair have been pulled free and are sticking out at odd angles.

“You’re a child,” she retorts before sticking out her tongue. “See if I do you any more favors.”

“Oh yeah,” Dean says, brightening. “I heard things went well with Cas. Thanks again. Even if you are a giant pain in my ass.”

“Speaking of, I’m surprised you haven’t made  _ Cas _ a giant pain in your ass. Why the fuck aren’t you tapping that, Winchester? Dude’s a brick-fucking-house.”

“Language, Joanna Beth,” Dean chides in a scandalized voice, clutching at an imaginary pearl necklace, before adding with a shrug, “Me and Cas ain’t like that.”

“Yeah. So I gathered when he made that same face when I asked him about it,” Jo answers immediately, “but  _ why not? _ ”

“Jo,” Dean chastises the sister-he-most-definitely-never-wanted for real this time. “Tell me you didn’t ask him that! You know what? Never mind. Of course you did.” Dean heaves a weary sigh. “Cas is my  _ boss. _ Everyone knows you don’t shit where you eat.”

“Anyone ever tell you, you got a charming way with words, Winchester?” Jo rolls her eyes.

“Well, I am known for my tongue,” Dean waggles his eyebrows at her.

“Gross. I’m gonna hurl,” Jo whines before leaning towards the outside of their booth and making retching sounds.

“That’s what you get for the pain-in-my-ass comment,” Dean admonishes.

Jo ignores him. “The way I hear it, that coffee shop needs you just as much as you need them. That makes him more like your partner than your boss,” she points out.

“All the more reason not to fuck anything up just because the guy’s got pretty eyes.”

“And a nice ass,” Jo adds helpfully. Dean concedes the point with a tilt of his head.

“Besides,” he adds, glancing around for Meg, “I’m kind of interested in someone else.”

Where the fuck is Meg with his order? He’s gonna have to explain to Jo why he’s got two drinks coming and why he’s going to be kicking her out of this booth soon and he damn well needs a beer for that conversation.

“Ah hah!” Jo shouts triumphantly, startling Dean so much he actually jumps before scowling at her. “So you  _ are _ seeing someone. I knew it.”

“You don’t know anything,” he retorts automatically.

“That’s who you were texting the entire time you and Sam were here for dinner, isn’t it?” she asks smugly and dammit, Dean doesn’t really have a comeback for that since she’s got it completely right. Damned if he’s going to admit it though.

“Ooh, is Deano telling you all about his Tinder date?” Meg asks with a grin as she sets two drinks down in front of Dean, making it clear that the other  _ isn’t _ for Jo. And great, of course she picks  _ now _ to show up.

“For the last time, CJ’s  _ not _ a Tinder date,” Dean defends before taking a long and much-needed swig of his beer.

“Whatever you say, lover boy. If that’s the case though, why are you wearing your ‘I’m-gonna-get-laid’ cologne?’”

“Wha—I don’t  _ have _ an ‘I’m-gonna-get-laid’ cologne,” Dean lies, shrinking back in his seat.

“Wait? Is he really?” Jo turns sideways to face Meg before clambering to her knees and leaning across the table to sniff at Dean.

“Oh my god, you  _ are _ !” She cackles. “You’re totally wearing your pick-up cologne!”

“Get off,” Dean grumbles, planting a palm in the center of Jo’s face and shoving her gently backwards, where she topples into the booth seat, laughing. He’s  _ almost _ regretting wearing this cologne, because Meg and Jo are right. It’s one hundred percent the cologne Dean wears when he’s out for a good time. The round little bottle of Spicebomb is just about the only luxury item Dean owns outside of Baby, which hardly counts, since Dean inherited her instead of paying for her. It’s definitely a “special occasion” kind of extravagance for Dean though, and nights when he goes out with the intention of not going home alone are about as special an occasion as he gets.

“Thought that’s what you were gonna do later with this CJ you told me about?” Meg grins and Dean narrows his eyes.

“Don’t you have children to eat or puppies to turn into fur coats somewhere?”

“No, but I do have tips to earn and since I know you two won’t be helping with that…”

“Nope.”

“Not a chance.” Dean and Jo answer at the same time, grinning at one another across the table.

“I’ll leave you to fuck off or fend for yourselves,” Meg finishes, flashing her middle finger behind her back at them as she struts away, already smiling at her next table.

“I can’t believe she actually manages to get any tips,” Dean says in disbelief shaking his head.

“I can’t believe _Meg_ knows more about your mystery guy than I do,” Jo says, picking up one of the laminated Roadhouse menus and swatting Dean with it.

He holds up an arm to fend off her attack. “Relax. Meg doesn’t know any more than you do. I only told her his name because he’s supposed to be meeting me here any minute now. And  _ no _ . You aren’t meeting him,” he says sternly as Jo opens her mouth, smiling as it closes again and falls into pout.

“Why can’t I meet him?” Jo asks sulkily. “Has Sam met him?”

“No, Sam hasn’t met him.” Dean hesitates, taking another pull off his beer before deciding that he may as well get this over with now, since it’s bound to come out if he and CJ keep seeing each other and Dean  _ definitely  _ has plans to see more of CJ...in every possible way. “Technically,  _ I  _ haven’t even met him yet.”

“I thought you said this  _ wasn’t _ a Tinder hookup?” Jo asks, eyeing Dean suspiciously.

“It’s not,” he assures her quickly. “Not even close.” With a sigh, he relates the entire story of his and CJ’s online meeting, starting with Sam’s rescuing Cupcake from Dean’s doormat and Dean’s resulting mad dash through the cat food aisle.

“Pet store girl sounds cute,” is all Jo says when Dean finishes his story.

“Really?” Dean asks, astounded. “ _ That’s _ your take-away?”

Jo shrugs. “Not like it’s that unlike you to pick up a stray.”

“Whatd’ya mean, ‘not unlike me?’ I’ve spent half my damn life trying to keep Sam Dolittle-Winchester from filling up my house with every stray cat, dog and guinea pig he comes across. It’s not like me at all to take in a stray cat.”

She snorts. “Wasn’t talking about the cat.”

Frowning, Dean points the neck of his almost-empty beer at her. “CJ’s not a stray.”

“Dean, you just told me he’s living on his brother’s couch. He’s like, the definition of a stray.”

“It’s not a couch,” Dean grumbles. “He has an air mattress.”

“Oh,” Jo says dramatically. “An  _ air mattress _ . Forgive me. Clearly he’s well off then. My mistake.”

As Dean makes his best effort to recreate every Michael Myers’  _ Halloween  _ scene using only his eyes, she relents with a sigh. “Fine. At least tell me this guy’s good looking.”

Dean shifts uncomfortably. “Uhhh, I don’t exactly know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Jo practically shrieks. “You haven’t even seen a picture?”

Dean’s barely had time to smirk and open his mouth when Jo interrupts, “Of his  _ face. _ ”

He pokes his lips out in a pout instead. Jo’s not nearly as much fun to mess with as Sam.

“No, okay? I haven’t seen any pictures of his face. But it doesn’t matter,” he defends stubbornly.

“So wait, you’re telling me that you’re choosing some guy you’ve only ever known online, who could have a face like Wade Wilson, over that walking GQ spread I met the other day? Wow. Didn’t think you were that deep, Dean.”

“Still waters, Jo. I’ve got hidden depths,” Dean defends primly.

“Still though. It’d be pretty hard for me to pass up that prime real estate for some sight-unseen property.”

“Not if you knew them like I know CJ,” Dean explains. “Besides, I’m pretty sure Cas has someone else he’s more interested in too.”

“He mentioned that,” Jo says, undeterred, “but the way he was blushing says you still have a chance, if you want it.”

Dean doesn’t expect the little pang he feels at the confirmation that Cas is indeed seeing someone, but there it is anyways. He shoves it down to the pit of his stomach, stomping on it for good measure as the guilt hits him. What kind of asshole wants someone to keep wanting them even though they’re head over heels for someone else? Does his ego really need that much stroking? He should be happy for Cas. He  _ is _ happy for Cas.

Shaking his head, he looks back at Jo. “Look,” he sighs, “even if I didn’t have CJ and even if it weren’t for the working together thing, Cas and I still wouldn’t work out.”

“What makes you say that? He’s pretty much exactly your type, Dean.”

“Physically, sure,” he concedes, “but the guy’s not like us, Jo.” Leaning back and signaling Meg for another beer, he tells Jo about Cas’ Novak-backstory. About how the guy’s a millionaire, even if most of that money is temporarily out of reach.

“I’m not tryin’ to be some Richie Rich’s  _ dalliance _ with one of the common folk,” Dean ends in his worst possible British accent.

Jo wrinkles her nose. “Cas didn’t seem like some rich snob to me,” she defends. “I thought he was really sweet and down-to-earth. Fuck knows my apartments aren’t exactly luxury, but he didn’t look down his nose at the place or anything. He actually seemed really excited to be signing the lease.”

Dean avoids Jo’s eyes knowing she’s right. Cas has never once even remotely acted like he thinks he’s better than anyone else, no matter their circumstances.

He shrugs uncomfortably. “Still though. It’s not like we’d have anything in common. At least not the kind of things you need to build a relationship on.” It’s a weak defense and he knows it, but for some reason, admitting that a relationship could possibly work with Cas feels like a betrayal of CJ, which Dean knows is ridiculous, but the feeling sits there anyways, looking smug.

Asshole. This is why Dean hates feelings.

“Okay, but you don’t really know much about Online Guy’s history. What if he had the same kind of upbringing as Cas? Hell, what if he  _ is _ Cas? What would you do if Cas walked through that door and sat down across from you?”

Dean swallows, resolutely ignoring the way his heart picks up speed at the thought.

“Probably slink away with my tail between my legs,” he mumbles, avoiding Jo’s knowing look with a drink of the new beer Meg dropped off on her way past their table, thankfully without comment since she had a tray full of food to deliver in her other hand.

Jo rolls her eyes before glancing at CJ’s sweating glass on the tabletop. “Where is lover boy, anyways?” Jo asks with a nervous frown. “Shouldn’t he be here by now?”

Dean shrugs, unworried. “He said he’d probably be a few minutes late.”

He takes another drink of his beer, settling in for the next round of his Harvelle interrogation, resisting the urge to check his phone (he’s not about to hand Jo that ammunition) and hoping CJ shows up to rescue him soon.

“Uh, Boss? You…might wanna come see this.”

Kevin’s voice travels down the hall leading to the rear of the shop, pitch rising in a way that has Castiel quickening his pace as he strides back toward the office and restrooms, pausing to hand their last customer her latte and chocolate chip muffin as he rounds the counter. Passing the two unisex restrooms, he sees the young barista standing in the open doorway to his office, holding the box of cups he’d gone back to fetch from the storeroom.

“What is it, Kevin?” Castiel asks, stepping carefully around a wet floor sign to reach his teenage employee, who’s staring into the office, wide-eyed.

Kevin shifts to the side so he can see and Castiel gasps, taking in the disarray before him.

“No! No, no, no, no, no!” he shouts, shoving roughly past Kevin as he rushes toward the desk, which is now covered in a very sodden collection of inventory lists, orders, and invoices. The papers are the least of his concern, however. What’s far more troublesome is the now very silent computer with a pitch black screen instead of the generic Windows desktop it was displaying when he left it just twenty minutes ago. Water is still trickling down the front of the monitor and dripping onto the keyboard from the brand new, soggy-edged hole in the ceiling tile above the desk. Nearly half the tile now sits in a puddle on the floor.

He’s reaching for the fried computer when he feels a hand on his arm.

“Cas, no! Electricity and water.  _ Not _ a good combination.”

Knowing Kevin is right and being glad his sixteen-year-old employee is apparently more level-headed in a crisis than he is, he drops his hand, turning and heading instead to the back of the kitchen, where he locates and flips off the electrical breaker helpfully labeled “ _ Office _ .”

Snagging a large metal mixing bowl from the kitchen on his trek back to the now-empty office, Kevin having returned to the front of the shop to take care of the few customers they get during dinner hours (mostly high school and college age kids who are willing to replace meals with caffeine), he unplugs the useless computer and sets the bowl underneath the dripping water. With the tile having been helpfully removed via the combined forces of water saturation and gravity, he can see the leaking copper pipe in the ceiling. It’s not gushing nearly enough water now to account for the current state of his office, so he assumes it must have been leaking long and steadily enough to collect inside the unfortunate tile, before being released just in time to completely ruin Castiel’s evening.

Sighing and heading to the front of the store, he calls the building manager, whose number is taped next to the cash register, along with both his and Gabe’s cell numbers, in case their employees need to reach one of them in exactly this kind of situation. Twenty minutes later, Castiel has followed the manager’s instructions to turn off the emergency water valve for the back half of the store, which unfortunately means they won’t have working restrooms until the leak is repaired. He’s just finished writing out a sign explaining and apologizing for the bathroom situation in thick, black Sharpie, when the phone rings with the building manager’s return call.

“Good evening from The Sweet Bean.”

“Castiel?”

“Yes. Hello, Marv.” Castiel steps as far to the side as the corded phone will allow, as Kevin moves around him, taking orders and making lattes for the two teens who have just come in, pointing at the flier on the wall next to the register and encouraging them to come back for The Sweet Bean’s first game night, starting in about two hours. Because of course they couldn’t have a plumbing disaster on just  _ any  _ night.

“I was able to reach an after-hours plumber, but I’m afraid it’s gonna cost you a pretty penny. These guys don’t come cheap. You sure you don’t wanna wait till morning?” Marv sounds suspiciously unsympathetic about this fact.

Castiel sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. The price will be steep, but almost certainly won’t outweigh losing an entire morning’s sales, which is what will happen if he waits until business hours to call.

“I’m sure, Marv. We can get by for tonight, but the kitchen is without water too. All we have right now is our sink in the front of the shop. We can’t open like this tomorrow.” Castiel pulls two small pieces of clear tape from the dispenser beneath the cash register and leans over the counter to affix the sign to the front of it.

“Hey, it’s your money, kid. Well, your  _ brother’s _ money, I should say,” Marv adds slyly in that whiny, nasally voice of his. “I suppose your money is still…out-of-reach for the moment. Any progress on the investigation?”

Castiel grits his teeth, reminding himself that The Sweet Bean  _ needs _ this slimy bastard to oversee the kind of building maintenance that he and Gabe wouldn’t know the first thing about. Plus, he has a feeling if he manages to get on Marv’s bad side, he’ll be encountering a great many leaky pipes, electrical outages, and any number of other small and untraceable, but annoying and costly inconveniences.

“Actually, yes.” Castiel turns away toward the wall, hoping the sounds of the espresso machine behind him will hide his next words from the handful of patrons waiting for their coffees at the other end of the counter. “I just received word a couple of days ago that I’ve officially been cleared as a suspect.” Unfortunately, Castiel’s bank accounts and assets will likely remain frozen as evidence throughout the duration of his father and brothers’ trials, but at least he knows he definitely won’t be joining the rest of his family behind bars. The news had been a welcome relief. 

He’s a little embarrassed to admit though, that as welcome as that news had been, it hadn’t preoccupied his mind nearly as much this week as had his upcoming date with D. A date that is supposed to begin in—he glances at the clock on the cash register—less than forty-five minutes.

Shit.

“Marv,” Castiel cuts off Marv’s very insincere congratulations (the man sounds distinctly disappointed that Castiel won’t be facing a lengthy trial and possible prison sentence, no doubt because that drama would make for much better gossip), “did the plumber give you a time frame for when he’ll arrive?”

“He just said he’d be there as soon as he can. He sounded like he might have been in the middle of dinner when I called, though,” Marv adds gleefully, “so I’m imagining  _ soon _ might have a pretty flexible definition.”

He thanks Marv before hanging up, glad he’s on the phone and not in-person so the other man can’t see his eye roll as he assures Castiel it’s “no problem at all. I live to serve.”

There’s no way he’s going to make it to the restaurant on time. He’d better message D and let him know that his “few minutes late” might have a very “flexible definition.” Reaching into his pocket for his cell phone, he frowns when he comes up empty and begins searching the countertop instead. It’s several minutes before the thought occurs to him.

“Oh no. No, no, no, no,” he says for the second time this evening, rushing toward his office and hoping that the sinking feeling in his stomach is wrong and his phone isn’t where he thinks it is.

Unfortunately, that hope is for naught, as Castiel rounds the doorway and discovers his smartphone lying in a pool of water on the desk. Groaning, he pulls the phone out of the puddle, grabbing a stack full of dish towels and half-heartedly attempting to sop up the mess as he gets up the nerve to investigate his waterlogged mobile.

Castiel presses the side button, but as he expected, his lock screen fails to appear. The phone is ruined. Or at the very least, it’s at least three days in a bowl of rice away from being any kind of help.

The growing ball of anxiety in Castiel’s stomach tightens. Without his phone, he has no way to contact D. He doesn’t have D’s phone number and even if he did, he wouldn’t have it memorized. Who memorizes telephone numbers in the age of smartphones?

“Uh, boss?” Kevin’s shaggy head appears around the doorframe, a fringe of hair falling across his eyes.

“What now?” Castiel asks glumly at the hesitant expression on the boy’s face. At this point he wouldn’t be surprised if Kevin told him their espresso machine exploded or that the entire front of the building is on fire.

“Charlie just called. She said she’s been trying to reach you on your cell for the last thirty minutes, but you didn’t answer.”

Castiel holds up his ruined smartphone while gesturing to the wet desk and Kevin grimaces.

“Oh. Well, she says she’s, and I quote, ‘so, so, so,  _ so _ sorry dude,’ but she’s not gonna make it tonight.”

Castiel’s heart sinks, plopping onto the damp floor with an almost audible splat. “Why not?” Castiel had begged Charlie to cover for him on her night off from the pet store. She’d quickly agreed when he’d told her he had a date, though he wouldn’t tell her with whom, assuaging her curiosity with assurances that it’s only a first date and promises to tell her everything afterward.

Like Gabe, she’d been more than a little disappointed his date wasn’t with Dean, but had still agreed to cover for him, telling him there was no way she was missing their first game night regardless, so she might as well get paid to be there.

Kevin winces. “Apparently her car broke down on the side of the road after her larping event. The tow truck was supposed to be there by now, but she’s still waiting. And she’s two hours from home.”

Shit, shit,  _ shit. _

“Kevin, do you have your phone?” Maybe he can at least call and leave a message for D at the Roadhouse. With both his own phone and the only computer in the building down, Kevin is his only Google-ready option at the moment.

“No, sorry man. It’s in my mom’s car.” He rolls his eyes. “She only lets me have it when I’m not at work or school.”

Fighting not to curse out loud at Linda and her overbearing parenting, Castiel sends Kevin back to the front and slouches against the desk. He spends several long minutes taking slow, deep breaths before he stands up and goes to fetch the board games he and Charlie selected for the evening.

Who knows? Maybe Marv is wrong and the plumber will be here any minute now. D’s already expecting Castiel to be a few minutes late anyway and it would be just like Marv to try and stir up drama for no reason.

Marv is not wrong.

Seven o’clock comes and goes, the start of he and D’s date going with it. Having finished setting up the board games and putting out the cookies, brownies, and other night-time friendly treats Dean had prepped for the evening, Castiel resorts to pacing up and down the hallway between orders, his stomach in knots.

Why hadn’t he had the foresight to keep a  _ printed _ list of employee names and phone numbers on-hand, instead of just relying on the computer? If he had that he could easily call someone else in to cover for him. He can’t in good conscience leave a sixteen-year-old alone to be solely responsible for both running the shop and handling the plumber though, no matter how mature. It wouldn’t be right. Plus, Linda Tran would skin him alive.

He’d asked Kevin if he could call his mom, but the kid hadn’t even known his own mother’s phone number. “Who memorizes numbers anymore? We have smartphones for a reason, man.”

He’s called Gabe’s number at least four times in the past thirty minutes, but of course his brother isn’t answering. Probably out on his own date, Castiel thinks bitterly.

Wisely electing to keep out of his boss’ way as much as possible, Kevin is the picture of quiet efficiency, greeting their game night arrivals warmly and making sure to push Dean’s baked goods. Castiel makes a mental note that as soon as they can afford it, the Tran family are getting raises. His own shift to manager salary can wait a little longer.

It’s nearly a quarter-to-eight when Castiel’s salvation walks in the door, taking the form of a gangly, floppy-haired nineteen-year-old.

Sam Winchester smiles warmly as he strides in. “Hey Kev. Hey Cas. This looks great!”

“Sam!” Castiel almost shouts at him, making the poor boy jump. “Can I borrow your phone?”

“Uh, sure?” Sam looks a little nervous as he hands over his smartphone and Castiel can hardly blame him. He probably looks deranged, but Sam’s phone will have Dean’s number in it, making it currently the only way he has of contacting another Sweet Bean employee.

_ Dean _ , he thinks as he scrolls through Sam’s contacts, distantly aware of Kevin relaying his series of unfortunate events to his friend. Dean will save him.

Realizing whose number Castiel must be searching for, Sam’s eyes go wide and he lifts a hand. “Uh Cas? Dean’s actually—”

What Dean actually is, Castiel doesn’t learn, because the phone’s already ringing and after just two rings, Dean picks up.

“Sammy? What’s wrong?”

“Um. Hello, Dean. It’s Castiel. I’m borrowing Sam’s phone.”

“Oh. Hey, Cas. Same question.”

Castiel gives Dean the most abridged version of events he can, explaining that he had to borrow Sam’s phone to call since their computer lost an altercation with their plumbing and he had no way to look up Dean’s number.

“I’m so sorry to ask on your day off, Dean, but is there any way you could come in and cover the store with Kevin? It’s our first game night so it’s busier than usual and I can’t leave just one person here with the plumber coming. Normally, I’d just stay myself, but I have plans that I’m already horrendously late for.”

Dean hesitates, then sighs.

“Nevermind,” Cas says quickly, feeling guilty. “I understand if you have your own plans. Please don’t worry about it. I can stay.” Of course Dean has plans. It was stupid of Castiel to ask him to come in.

“Cas, haven’t you been there all day?” Dean asks softly.

“Well, yes, but the occasional double shift is part of being the store manager. You cover the shifts no one else can. It comes with the territory.”

“Except there  _ is _ someone else who can cover this one,” Dean says firmly. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

“You don’t have to do this, Dean. It really is fine. You should enjoy your evening.” It takes a great effort to force out the words, but Cas does. He can’t be unfair to Dean just because he’s trying to salvage his date.

“Nah, it’s no trouble Cas. It looks like my plans have fallen through, anyway.” Dean sounds resigned and a little sad and Castiel can’t help but wonder if Dean’s plans were with that mysterious  _ someone _ he’s interested in. As guilty as he feels that Dean’s romantic misfortune might prevent his own, he still can’t help taking the man up on his offer.

“Thank you, Dean. Truly. You’re a lifesaver.”

Kevin practically shoves Castiel out the door after that, assuring him that he is more than capable of keeping the place from burning down for the twenty minutes until Dean arrives.

Castiel makes it to the Roadhouse in ten. 

Pushing open the heavy wooden door with one-hand while fruitlessly attempting to tug the wrinkles out of his black work button-up with the other, he flounders for a moment in the restaurant’s entryway, eyes darting from table to table. 

“Hey there, Handsome. How many for tonight?”

“Oh, just me,” Castiel answers the flirty server with the heart-shaped face and teasing smirk. As her smirk widens, he quickly adds, “but I’m meeting someone. He should already be here.”

The smirk falls as the server’s sharp eyes narrow. 

“Sure. Can I get your name?” she asks suspiciously.

“Castiel, but um, he calls me CJ. I’m looking for D?”

A new look overtakes the woman’s fair features, making her look both smug and spiteful at once.

“Hate to break it to ya, Clarence,” she drawls, stepping to the side and gesturing to a booth in the far corner of the room, “but I’m afraid you just missed him.” 

Castiel’s heart plummets to his feet like a stone in an empty wishing well. Shuffling past the snarky server’s outstretched arm, he takes in the only occupants of the deserted table—two empty beer bottles and an untouched whiskey sour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *dodges every manner of projectile*
> 
> Okay, look. I'm sorry! So, so sorry! Like very sorry! Please remember your author loves you and will fix all sads! I promise! Pinky swear! And I know. I know 15X18 is coming this week and this is just really terrible timing and I just...
> 
> Speaking of episodes and things that make us cry...I do have something of a peace offering for you. This week's episode thoughts were um...a little too long and spoilery for the end notes, so I created [this whole Tumblr post](https://a-mandala-rose.tumblr.com/post/633645230396243968/you-spin-me-right-round) instead! Check it out and let me know what you think! You can respond on Tumblr or in the comments here...after you finish yelling at me for this cliffhanger, of course.
> 
> Well, now that THAT'S done, maybe my brain will finally let me sleep.
> 
> Stay safe, loves.


	10. Add chocolate chips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy hell, what a WEEK y'all!!! 
> 
> It's an entirely different world than it was the last time I posted! I hope, with all of my heart, that you are all doing well. And to all of you US types out there who voted and voted BLUE during this election, I just want to say THANK YOU!!! We did it. We flipping did it. I don't even have words for the relief I feel.
> 
> On the Supernatural front, I'm fairly certain unless this fic and Netflix are your ONLY interaction with Supernatural, you probably have an idea of what happened in this week's episodes. Be warned, there may be spoilers in the comments! I will bury my own semi-spoilery thoughts down as far as I can in the end notes, so make sure you exit out of your browser without scrolling down when you finished the story to avoid them.
> 
> There is more work to be done, but for now, your icing, flour, and glitter-covered author is ready with another chapter about these two idiots and their much more intelligent feline sidekick. Also, I'm really glad some of y'all don't have my home address, because I think glitter bombs were a real possibility after that cliff hanger! 😂
> 
> Thank you so, so very much to [EllenOfOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz) and [LadyRandomBox](https://www.instagram.com/ladyrandombox/?hl=en) for their beta work on this chapter. I should probably let y'all know that when I first sent them the link to this story back in August, I had written chapters 1-9. I sent them chapter 10 about 2 weeks ago. I just wanted you to know how much they have suffered for my art and your enjoyment. 😂  
> Truly though, they are heroes and I am grateful. 💖
> 
> Speaking of grateful, I cannot WAIT for you to see LRB's Cupcake picture this week! Yes, I know I say that every week, but this week is truly something special that we thought up and she beautifully created for someone very special to all of us and I just really hope you love it. If you do, please send her some love. She also shares these pictures on her Twitter and Insta (Insta linked above), so be sure to show her some love there as well.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy the chapter. Ellen's capslock key mysteriously seemed to get stuck in the "on" position during her beta comments on this chapter. Not sure what that was about... 😘

Feet dragging across the thin, worn dining room carpeting, Castiel finds himself drawn to the empty table. The table where D had clearly waited for him, going so far as to order Castiel’s drink and then watch as the ice slowly melted, condensation dripping onto the table, when Castiel never arrived.

He feels wretched, which he’s sure must be nothing compared to how D feels right now. His friend puts up a good front, but Castiel knows he’s a sensitive soul at heart. He’d been in such a hurry to get to D that he hadn’t even thought to use Sam’s phone to call the restaurant first. Why hadn’t he called ahead to let D know he was on his way? He might have still been here then. He could have been face-to-face with D at last, first begging his forgiveness for being so late and then maybe even getting a hug hello. Instead, he’s sitting here with no way to contact the man and a depressing certainty that even if he did, his contact wouldn’t be welcome.

He takes a seat at the scratched and scarred table, not the one clearly reserved for him by the sweating whiskey sour, but the one with two finished beers, the one D was sitting in just minutes ago. If Castiel closes his eyes, he can almost imagine that he can still smell the other man’s cologne—something spicy…and familiar. It takes Castiel a moment to place the scent. It’s not until another server walks by carrying a basket of dinner rolls that he remembers where he’s smelled it before. It smells almost like the cologne Dean wore that day of his first catering job. It’s hard to be certain, because Dean’s cologne had mixed with the scents of half a dozen different pastries that morning, but they’re definitely similar. Castiel pushes the thought of his attractive coworker out of his mind. Guilt over picturing Dean is the last thing he needs to add to tonight’s disaster.

“Cas? What are you doing here?”

Castiel startles out of his mire of self-loathing, opening his eyes and knocking over the beer bottle his fingertips had been resting against in the process.

A thin arm reaches out to steady the bottle and Castiel follows it up to a familiar face. “Jo?”

“Yeah. Not that it’s not nice to see you again, but I thought Dean was on his way to help you out at the shop?”

“He is,” Castiel admits, “I was supposed to meet someone here, but a plumbing emergency made it impossible for me to leave work on time. Dean’s going in to cover, but it looks like I missed my date anyways.”

“ _Your_ date?” Jo asks slowly, her eyebrows climbing as she sinks into the seat across from Castiel.

“Um, yes?” Castiel scrnches his eyebrows at the oddly-acting blonde. “How did you know Dean is on his way to the Bean, anyway? Did he call you?” He can’t imagine why Dean would have called Jo to let her know he was going into work, unless of course they had plans. Oh dear. Had Dean lied when he told Castiel he was free? It would be just like him.

“Did I interrupt your plans? If so, I apologize. Dean told me his plans for the evening had fallen through.”

“Oh, they did,” Jo says faintly, waving a hand. “Or at least, he thought they did, but never mind that.” Her shocked expression morphs into a sly smirk. “Tell you what, I’ll tell you how I knew about Dean’s change of plans after _you_ tell me all about this guy you were supposed to meet.”

“How did you know it was a guy?” Castiel asks, narrowing his eyes. “Did you see him?”

“Lucky guess,” Jo answers quickly and Castiel is certain she’s lying, but doesn’t get the chance to call her on it before she adds, “Now spill.”

And to his surprise, Castiel does. He tells Jo all about how he met D online thanks to Charlie’s interference, how their casual kitten conversations grew into a friendship, which grew into a crush, which Castiel had hoped, for one shining moment, might grow into something more. It feels good to talk about D with someone who isn’t making lewd comments every thirty seconds, though he can tell by the look on Jo’s face (and their previous conversation) that she probably wants to. At least she’s not acting like Castiel is crazy for falling for a guy he’s never met.

He’s nearly finished his story when Meg shows up at the table, setting a fresh whiskey sour in front of Castiel with a sickeningly sweet smile. “Here ya go, Clarence. Just thought I’d freshen up that drink for you, hot stuff.”

Before Castiel can thank her, Jo immediately slides the drink away. “Don’t drink that.”

Castiel blinks, but remembering the look on Meg’s face when he’d first mentioned D, decides to heed Jo’s advice and slumps back in his seat. Tucking the empty beer bottles under an arm and grabbing a glass with each hand, Jo disappears into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with a basket of mozzarella sticks, a beer for herself, and a third whiskey sour for Castiel, which she assures him is safe.

“So,” Jo says around an unattractive mouthful of gooey mozzarella, “I take it this D is the _someone_ you told me you’re seeing?”

“Yes,” Castiel admits, feeling himself blushing. “At least, he was. I’ll be lucky if he even wants to speak to me again after this, let alone date me.”

“You really like him though, huh?” she asks with a kind smile.

“I really do,” he acknowledges glumly, waving away the offer of mozzarella sticks as Jo nudges the basket toward him.

Shrugging, the blonde picks up another stick, pointing at Castiel with it. “Wow, you sound just as screwed as Dean,” she says.

“What do you mean?”

“You know, the whole ‘head-over-heels for some mystery guy’ thing. Or are you still pretending you didn’t know about that? He gave me the impression you guys had maybe talked about it.”

Castiel shrugs. “Wasn’t my news to share.”

Grinning, Jo dunks the mozzarella stick in marinara. “Well, lucky for you, I have no such scruples. Dean is _totally_ crazy about this guy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him light up like that when he talks about someone before.”

“You said he’s ‘screwed,’ though? Are things not going well? I know Dean was worried his feelings wouldn’t be returned.” He knows he shouldn’t invade Dean’s privacy like this, but Dean plays everything so close to the chest and Castiel will admit he’s wondered more than once if Dean has made any progress with his maybe-unrequited crush. He had hoped so, as Dean had seemed even more cheerful than usual this week, but Castiel couldn’t be certain that wasn’t just him projecting his own feelings over his upcoming date with D.

“Oh, trust me. That’s not a problem. Turns out this idiot is just as hopeless and pathetic as Dean is. They’re a perfect match.”

Castiel forces a smile, even though his heart twists painfully in his chest. He will _not_ be envious of his friend’s love. Dean deserves good things. “That’s good. I hope it works out for them. I was a little worried they might have had plans together this evening and I was interrupting.”

“Oh, they definitely had plans this evening. That’s what fell through.” Jo swallows half the mozzarella stick and Castiel thinks she and Charlie would get along. He’s often wondered how someone with as deep and abiding a love for fried food as his petite friend can stay so tiny.

He frowns. “Oh. Is everything okay?”

“Well, he kind of got stood up.”

At Castiel’s alarmed look, she continues, “Don’t worry. It wasn’t the other guy’s fault. He had an emergency at work and couldn’t get away. Dean didn’t know that though. Poor guy sat here for an hour, sipping on his beer and gushing on and on about how great this dude is.”

It takes Castiel a moment to parse Jo’s words, but when he does, he suddenly finds that he can’t breathe. She’s joking. That has to be it. She can’t possibly mean—“Here?” he squeaks. “Dean was at the Roadhouse?”

“Well, not _here_ ,” Jo answers, looking down at herself. “More like _there_.” She nods at Castiel, “Where you’re sitting.”

“No.” Castiel shakes his head, his eyes glued to Jo’s face, searching for any sign of a lie.

“Mmm,” she confirms with another sympathetic smile. “Had to get a couple beers in him first, but then he just wouldn’t shut up about how great this CJ guy is. ‘CJ’s so smart. He was gonna be a veterinarian, Jo,’” she says, mimicking Dean’s deep voice. “‘He likes horror movies almost as much as I do, even if he doesn’t get why Bruce Campbell is the fuckin’ man.’ I don’t get it either, by the way,” she adds conspiratorially, “But Dean’s always had a weird crush on the guy.”

“You’re serious,” he answers faintly.

“Yup.” Jo pops the “p” at the end of the word while looking like the cat that got the six-foot-tall canary.

“I have to go see Dean,” Castiel attempts to rise to his feet, but is stopped abruptly by Jo’s hand on his sleeve, hauling him back down to his seat with surprising strength.

“Not so fast there, cowboy,” she says. “What are you plannin’ to do?”

“I’ve gotta tell him,” Castiel explains the obvious. “Tell him that I’m CJ and he’s D. I mean, he knows that he’s D, but he doesn’t know that I… that we’re…” Suddenly the absurdity, the _impossibility_ of the entire thing hits Castiel and he slumps back against the maroon vinyl. Would Dean even believe him? And is this really a conversation he wants to have at the coffee shop? Where they _work_? Together?

Castiel can’t believe what a mess this has become.

Clearly seeing the comprehension dawning on his face, Jo slides his whisky sour toward him. “Drink,” she advises. He takes a sip of the cold drink, letting it soothe the adrenaline rush that’s still urging him to sprint for his car.

“He thinks I stood him up,” he says to Jo miserably. “I hurt him.”

“Uh huh,” she agrees, “Which is all the more reason you can’t just go in there and dump all this on him when he’s already feeling vulnerable. Dean does a lot of things well. Vulnerability ain’t one of ‘em.”

“But wouldn’t he be happy to know he wasn’t really stood up? That I really did… _do_ want to be with him?”

“Look, Cas,” Jo says gently, “Dean and CJ weren’t the only couple he and I talked about tonight. We also talked about Dean and you.”

“Me?” He asks in surprise. “But there is no ‘Dean and me.’ We’re just coworkers…friends. We don’t even know one another that well.”

“Exactly,” she nods.

A sinking feeling hits Castiel and it’s like all his worst fears come true at once. “Are you saying that Dean wants to be with CJ, but he wouldn’t want to be with me?”

“When I asked him why he was so hell bent on starting something with a guy he’d never even met when he spends most of every day with you, he said that a relationship between the two of you could never work…because you’re, you know, you. A Novak.”

“A Novak? Does Dean think I’m like my brothers? That I stole from innocent people? I would never do that! I thought he knew—”

“No! No, not like that,” Jo cuts off Castiel’s spiraling, “It’s just that…you’re from different worlds, okay? Dean hasn’t exactly had an easy life. If you know about his parents…” She looks at Castiel, clearly hesitant to reveal something so personal, but Castiel nods reassuringly, piecing together the things in his mind that he knows about both Dean and D’s histories.

“His mom always wanted to open a bakery, but she passed away. His dad owned a garage that he wanted Dean to take over, but then he passed away too.” He feels his heart ache for his friend once more as the pieces slide into place. The “family business” that didn’t work out for D was the garage his father owned…his father who passed away. And the “dream job” D talked about? Being a baker. Opening his own bakery…in memory of his mother _and_ his father, Castiel realizes now…a way to carry on a Winchester family business. If he hadn’t already known he was in love before, Castiel knows it now. He feels like he’s seeing the full picture of both Dean and D for the first time and it’s even more beautiful than he could have imagined.

“Yeah. But it wasn’t just that. Mary was sick for a long time before she died, most of Dean’s childhood, actually, and they spent every cent they had on her medical bills. Money was always tight, but it didn’t get real bad until after she died. His dad…didn’t take it well. Most of his paycheck ended up in the bottom of a bottle and after a while, both their house and his business got foreclosed on. Dean didn’t even tell anyone for months. They were living out of motel rooms and John’s old car until Sam finally fessed up to my mom. It wasn’t long after that when John wrapped his car around a tree.”

“I didn’t know,” Castiel whispers, feeling heartbroken as he traces his fingertips over the deepest of the table's many scratches, as if he can somehow soothe away such a lingering hurt.

“Of course not. Because Dean doesn’t tell _anyone_ that story. There at the end, John managed to scrape enough together to buy a beat-up old trailer to live in and Dean still lives in it now. My mom helped John buy it and I’m pretty sure Dean knows, but no one ever talks about it. I think that’s the reason he always refused a raise whenever my mom tried to give him one though. As his way of paying her back. Dean’s one of the most kind-hearted, stubborn, and stupidly proud people I’ve ever known.”

Castiel smiles at the unmistakable pride in her voice. “I’ve gotten that sense from Dean. He works very hard to prove himself and never seems to want to accept help, though he’s the first to offer it to someone else. It’s so very different from the world I grew up in, where so many people took everything given to them as a matter of course, never doubting they deserved it, even if they hadn’t actually done anything to earn it.”

“That’s exactly it.” Jo smiles at him sadly. “Two different worlds. And that’s why Dean thinks a relationship between you would never work out.”

Castiel’s heart shatters. “He said that?”

The blonde head across from him nods. “Hearing your stories about living on an air mattress in your brother’s apartment… Dean’s spent months thinking that CJ is just like him. That they come from the same kind of background, share some of the same experiences. Finding out that’s not true will crush him.”

“But everything I’ve said to him as CJ _is_ true,” Castiel argues. “And maybe we don’t have a lot of common experiences from our past, but we have so much in common now. Doesn’t that matter more than how we grew up?”

“It should, sure, but look around, Cas. You can’t tell me this is the kind of place you’re used to having dinner in. There’s a tear in the vinyl on that booth seat older than me, people throw peanut shells on the ground in the bar area, and the goddamn floor’s _always_ sticky. But I love it. This place is me and I love it. So does Dean. And it’s kinda scary, you know? Embarrassing even, letting outsiders in here. Knowing they might see the ripped vinyl and flickering light bulbs and not love it like we do. Might even judge us for it.” The significant look she shoots at Castiel says plainly that she’s talking about a whole lot more than a dimly lit dive bar.

“If there’s anyone here who should feel any kind of shame over where they come from or how they were raised, it’s me,” Castiel says hotly. “And I would _never_ judge someone, least of all someone as incredible and…and _good_ as Dean, for their upbringing.”

A auburn-haired woman with a towel slung over one shoulder pauses in her work wiping down a nearby table and Castiel feels himself flush, resolving to keep his voice down.

“Hey,” Jo defends, holding up her hands placatingly, “I’m with you. I’m just saying I know how Dean thinks and Dean…Dean’s stupid.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but Jo fends him off with a hand, “Not stupid intelligence-wise. When it comes to anything math or science related like cars or cooking, Dean’s a freaking genius. When it comes to handling his feelings, though? He’s a glorified toddler.”

Sighing, he acquiesces. “I guess I can’t judge. I’m not exactly known for my ability to navigate interpersonal relationships either.”

Jo looks around innocently. “You don’t say?”

Glaring at her and getting a smug grin in return, he asks, “What should I do? I can’t go on pretending to be CJ forever.”

“Of course not,” Jo quickly agrees. “Just maybe don’t tell him right away. Make an effort to have him get to know you a bit better as Cas. So he realizes that the two of you really do have more in common than the name at the top of your paychecks.”

“But won’t that risk confusing him further? Making him feel torn between me and CJ?” Castiel thinks of the guilt he’s been feeling, fighting his attraction to Dean while falling for D. “The last thing I want to do is hurt him…again.” Castiel winces.

Jo rolls her eyes. “It’s just for a few days. A week or two at most,” she says soothingly. “Just long enough for Dean to realize you’re more than a former trust fund baby with pretty eyes and a nice ass. Besides, it’s not like I’m telling you to lead the guy on for months before finally agreeing to meet him and then standing him up or something.”

Castiel glares at her for a moment before perking up slightly. “Dean thinks I have a nice ass?”

Laughing, Jo throws a wadded up napkin, hitting Castiel squarely in the face as she says, “You two really are perfect for one another, you know that, right?”

Feeling himself smiling his first genuine smile of the evening, Castiel finally stands, leaning down to give Jo a brief hug.

“Thanks, Jo,” he says as he pulls back. “And by the way,” he gestures around them, “when I look at this place? I don’t see ripped vinyl or sticky floors.”

He looks at the tear Jo had mentioned, which has been carefully stitched up by hand. “I see tables and chairs painstakingly put back together with patience and care.” His fingertips graze the gouged tabletop. “I see a place where things aren’t discarded just because they’ve been damaged.”

Several feet away, the auburn-haired woman has stopped her table-wiping ruse entirely and is suddenly staring at Castiel with glittering eyes. Looking down, he smiles faintly as he sees the scratches from a new angle, tracing the well-worn letters with a fingertip.

“And I see a family, held together not by blood or by name, but by love. I think anyone should be proud to be from a place like this. I would be.”

Jo beams at him as he squeezes her arm and moves away, nodding at the woman who he’s now almost certain is Jo’s mother and Sam and Dean’s Not-Aunt Ellen as he walks past.

He hears a distinct sniff behind him before a slightly throaty voice says, “Well, if that damn fool boy don’t want him back, I’ll sure as hell take him.”

Startling into consciousness, Dean struggles for air, finding himself unable to breathe as memories of the nightmare flood his mind: clawing, grasping, gasping for breath as he realizes he’s buried alive.

Coming back to himself as the last vestiges of sleep fall away, he reaches up to shove the damn cat off his face, sucking in air at last.

“Dammit, Cupcake,” he growls between heaving breaths. “How many times have I told you not to do that, huh?”

Cupcake gives an indignant yowl before hopping off Dean’s bed and onto the floor, looking pointedly at the doorway.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m comin’,” Dean grumbles, dragging a hand down his sleep-creased face before hauling himself upright.

Stretching and yawning, he grabs his phone from the nightstand before following Cupcake to the kitchen. Tossing the phone on the counter, he refills the now eagerly mewling cat’s food and water dishes, trying not to trip over the apparently starving feline twining herself around his ankles. Damn cat eats better than he does, but to hear her now, you’d think she hadn’t eaten in days.

“What? You goin’ for the Emmy?” he asks at a particularly dramatic mewl.

Making a face, he opens the can of wet food Cupcake always starts her day with before dumping it onto a saucer with a disturbingly moist _plop_. It’s a hell of a thing to smell pre-coffee, but she loves the damn stuff and on days Dean works, it makes him feel a little less guilty for leaving her alone all day.

“This would go a lot quicker without you tryin’ to kill me, you know,” he says pointedly, as he stumbles around the determined ginger, but Cupcake’s yowls only get louder.

“Alright, alright, here,” Dean growls in his sleep-roughened drawl, finally setting the dish down in front of the hungry ball of fur and stepping away as she digs in like Sammy at an all-you-can-eat salad bar.

“Not even a thank you.” Dean shakes his head as the cat devours her meal without looking up. “Ungrateful. That’s what you are.”

It’s not until he’s got the coffee brewing in the ancient Mr. Coffee that came with the trailer and is probably nearly as old, that Dean sees the message notification on his phone.

Leaving the phone where it lies on the countertop peninsula, he leans back against the sink and stares at the tiny blue icon on his lock screen. There’s only one person who sends him DMs on Twitter.

His need for caffeine suddenly too urgent to wait for the entire pot to brew, Dean pulls down a coffee mug and fills it from the half-full carafe, rushing to return it to the machine. The hiss and sizzle of coffee dripping onto the burner plate fills the otherwise silent kitchen, Dean’s Mr. Coffee being older than the automatic stop-brew feature most newer models have.

Sipping the bitter brew, Dean looks down as Cupcake, breakfast finished, rubs her nose against his shin in thanks.

“You’re welcome,” he says gruffly, before nodding at the still untouched phone. “I should at least read it, right?”

Cupcake gives him another nose-nudge and Dean figures that’s her being supportive of whatever choice he makes. She’s a good cat that way.

Feeling hollowed out, he drags his eyes away from the blinking phone and stares into his coffee cup instead. He knows he needs to read whatever bullshit message CJ has sent him and deal with his issues. After all, that’s why he’s home in the first place. He looked like such a sad sack of shit at work yesterday that Cas insisted he take today off. Dude seemed to think Dean’s sorry state was his fault, for asking him to come in and close Thursday night, knowing he’d be opening Friday morning.

Dean had tried to insist he was fine and pointed out that he’d watched Cas work back-to-back closings and openings dozens of times, but the guy kept shooting him such Sam-level puppy dog eyes all day he eventually caved. Truthfully though, Dean would much rather be at work, where the hum and buzz of his kitchen could distract him from his traitorous thoughts.

Thoughts like, why didn’t CJ show up Thursday night? Why is he just _now_ messaging, two days later? If he didn’t really want to meet Dean, why did the asshole ask him out in the first place?

That’s the one that really gets Dean. This whole thing was _CJ’s_ idea. Sure, Dean had been planning to ask him out too, but the fact is, CJ had done it first. He asked Dean out, then stood him up. It doesn’t make any sense. Naturally, he’s gone through all the worst-case scenarios: maybe CJ was hurt. Maybe he’d been in a car accident. Or maybe he’d fallen down the stairs and broken both arms. Or maybe it was even worse.

He’d spent all night Thursday and all day Friday alternating between hurt, anger, and fear, to the point of exhaustion. At least he _had_ , until late last night when he’d finally dragged himself to bed and, because clearly Dean’s a masochist, had pulled up his message history with CJ, wanting to look once again for any hints in their previous messages that CJ might possibly be the kind of asshole who makes guys fall in love with him and then stands them up. That’s when he’d noticed the little blue check mark next to his messages.

The bastard had read Dean’s messages from Thursday night.

The messages where he’d asked CJ if everything was okay. If he was gonna be later than expected. If he was still coming. If he could just let Dean know if he was alright.

He’d read them, but not responded.

At least, he hadn’t until now.

Steeling his resolve, Dean picks up his phone and taps the notification to pull up his waiting message.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Dean sets his coffee cup back on the counter with a thud and drags a hand across his suddenly burning eyes. He stares at the message for several more seconds before coming to a decision. Hands only slightly shaking, he starts to type his response.

CJ’s reply pops up so quickly Dean knows the man must have been checking his phone constantly, just waiting for Dean’s response. For some reason, instead of soothing him, that knowledge only makes him irrationally angrier.

Dean scoffs. Really? Come on. He’d expected a better excuse than this.

Frowning at his phone, Dean sits down heavily at the spindly kitchen table. CJ seems genuinely remorseful, but Dean isn’t quite ready to forgive him yet. He blinks in surprise. Huh. He hadn’t realized until just now that he was even considering forgiving CJ, but there it is.

Doesn’t mean he’s going to make it easy on the guy though.

Dean nearly drops the phone in shock. Meg? CJ really did go to the _Roadhouse._ Pressing his contacts button, it’s only seconds before Dean has the phone to his ear, Meg’s number dialing.

“What the fuck, Winchester? Why the hell are you calling me at the crack of”—Meg’s sleep-heavy voice pauses as she checks the time—“nine AM on a Saturday? I close on Friday nights, you dick.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Dean lies unconvincingly. “Thursday night, when I was at the Roadhouse—”

“You mean when you got stood up by your Grindr date?”

Dean grits his teeth. He’s not sure why he thought Meg would be in any way helpful.

“He wasn’t a…” Deep breaths. “Sure. Then. Did he ever happen to show up lookin’ for me?”

“And what do I get out of it if I tell you?”

“Well, if you don’t tell me, I’m gonna stop by that fucking roach hotel you call an apartment and pound on the goddamn door every morning on my way to work. At four AM.”

“Fine. So touchy,” Meg sulks. “Yes, okay? Clarence showed up about ten minutes after your little lovesick puppy-self crawled out of there with your tail between your legs. Happy?”

“When I’m talking to you? Never,” Dean snarks back. _Clarence?_ CJ’s name is Clarence? No wonder he goes by CJ. Of course, this is Meg, so who the fuck actually knows. Meg lies like breathing.

“Then my life is complete. You thinkin’ about giving tall, dark, and fuckable a second chance? Gotta say, I wouldn’t mind being the filling in that big gay sand—”

Pressing the end button before Meg can finish her sentence, Dean switches back to his message with CJ.

Despite himself, Dean feels the corners of his lips twitch upward at that.

Dean’s chuckling softly to himself when CJ’s next message appears. His heart feels like it splinters in his chest as he reads CJ’s words.

Friends. The truth is, Dean’s not sure. Just a few days ago he thought they were well on their way to a lot more than friends. A few days ago he was ready to jump head-first into a full-blown relationship with a man whose face he’d never seen, he was that confident of their feelings for one another.

Now?

Now he can’t help but second-guess every interaction. Doubt every sentiment. Did CJ really mean all those things he said? Has he been leading Dean on this entire time? Hell, for all Dean knows, CJ could be catfishing him. Okay, so maybe that last one isn’t likely. After all, Dean did contact him first. Unless Charlie is some kind of weird catfish wingman. No. That can’t be true. Dean’s gotten to know Charlie over these past few months at The Sweet Bean and she’s good people. He can’t believe that of her.

Dean swallows. He supposes they’re still friends. He’s not sure if they’ll ever be more than that now and that fucking _hurts_ , but he can’t bear the thought of cutting the guy out of his life entirely.

His conversations with Jo and Sam come rushing back at him again and he thinks about just how invested he’s been in this relationship that, well, might not even be real. He’s spent every spare moment glued to his phone, choosing talking to his seemingly imaginary friend over hanging out with his real friends and family. He’s pushed away living, breathing people for a fantasy. Hell, Cas was right there in front of him. Solid, real, and clearly wanting Dean and all Dean could think about was someone whose name he doesn’t know.

Standing suddenly from the table and startling Cupcake, who’d been dozing with her head on Dean’s foot, he dumps the dregs of his coffee in the sink before rinsing off his cup and heading to the shower. Cas can grump all he wants, but Dean can’t stand the thought of sitting around here all day with nothing but his thoughts and CJs messages for company. He’d rather drown his wounded pride in work.

An hour later, he’s freshly showered and shaved as he walks into The Bean, hoping he at least looks a little less shitty than he still feels. All worries about himself and his own problems take a backseat, however, the moment he takes in Cas, slumped behind the counter, staring at his smartphone and looking like he hasn’t slept in days.

“Cas? You okay, man?”

“Dean,” Cas startles, quickly tucking his phone into his pocket, as if Dean gives a damn that he’s checking his phone on the clock. Something that looks like a bizarre cross between relief and pain flashes across Cas’ features before he forces them into something that might pass for neutral. “What are you doing here? I thought you were taking the day off?”

“Yeah, well it looks like you need it way more than me. No offense, but you look like hell, man. You okay?”

Cas looks for a moment like he’s about to say something, then shakes his head. “I’m fine. I just…made a mistake and I think I may be making another one, but what’s done is done, I suppose.”

Suddenly alarmed, Dean steps closer, putting a hand on Cas’ bicep. “Did something happen with the investigation? Are they not clearing you after all?”

Smiling weakly, Cas looks up at him with slightly red-rimmed eyes. “No, not that. I’m still rightfully in the clear. This is more…personal.”

Dean sags in relief as he studies his friend. The guy’s usually impeccably ironed button-up is rumpled, his hair is even more of a mess than usual (which is really saying something), and every pore seems to radiate sadness. Cas looks like Dean feels and Dean takes a chance.

“Relationship trouble?”

Cas’ eyes widen and Dean feels himself flush. Maybe he shouldn’t be getting so personal with someone who is, technically, his boss, but he knows Cas remembers that morning standing in these very same spots behind the counter just as clearly as he does. He shrugs. “Just a hunch.”

Cas nods and licks his lips before answering. “Something like that. Only I don’t think there’s a relationship for there to be trouble in. At least not anymore. Maybe there never was.”

Dean feels those words resonate deep within him. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Shaking his head, Cas drops his eyes. “I shouldn’t burden you with my problems.”

Dean frowns.

“You’re not a burden, Cas. We’re friends. That's what friends do.”

Cas smiles softly at him. “Even so…” he says quietly.

“Well,” Dean takes a deep breath, “if it helps, I know how you feel.”

Cas studies him with eyes so sad that Dean almost feels like he can’t breathe under the weight of their sincerity when Cas murmurs, “I’m so sorry, Dean.”

More than anything in that moment, Dean wants to pull Cas into his arms. To offer his friend comfort and seek some in return, but something, something about this moment feels so fragile. If he hugs Cas now, it feels like the moment might shatter…or maybe they will.

Instead he clears his throat, dropping his hand from the arm he hadn’t even realized he was still holding and taking a step back. “You know what we need?” he asks roughly as Cas tilts his head in question. “Cookies,” Dean says matter-of-factly. “Come on, I haven’t made you my salted caramel chocolate chunk cookies, yet. They’re almost as sexy as I am.”

Dean waggles his eyebrows theatrically, pulling an unwilling chuckle from Cas. He might not know how to fix things with CJ right now, but maybe he can at least distract himself and make his friend feel a little bit better in the process.

Cas smiles fondly as Dean pulls him by the sleeve and they spend most of the afternoon making (and eating) a half-dozen different flavors of cookies between customers, deciding to make their newly dubbed salted caramel chocolate “Break-up Cookies” a permanent part of the menu. For a while, Dean almost forgets to be heartbroken as he loses himself in cookies…and in Cas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what are we throwing at me this week? 😂😘  
> I do promise, these two WILL get their shit together eventually. In fact, I should have a final chapter count to add next week, as we are nearing the end of this story. 🥺
> 
> On a more cheerful note, HOW ABOUT THAT KITTEN??? 😍 If you'd like to see her in all her full-size glory, check her out [here](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/727055845380194366/774875394654470154/cupcakes_kittens_cupcake_cas_canon.png).
> 
> Now scroll down for episode thoughts...
> 
> OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG  
> OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG  
> OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG  
> OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG  
> OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG
> 
> That about sums it up. 😂
> 
> Seriously though. I knew it was gonna happen as soon as Cas mentioned the Deal, but I STILL couldn't believe it. I WAS NOT prepared. I NEVER thought this would happen. Ever. I stopped breathing around the "I can't have..." and started shaking at "I cared because..." When he said the thing...the sound I made. It wasn't human. It was some primal, wounded animal noise. I scared my six-year-old, you guys. My husband had to explain that this is apparently how Mommy sounds when she's really, really happy. 😂
> 
> In the days after, I've experienced a bizarre rollercoaster of joy, anger (over the antis and haters), and grief. I know others have had even more mixed emotions over that scene, but if it feels like not enough... all I can say is to remember that the title of this episode was "Despair" and that the counterpart to despair is _hope_. So for the next two weeks, I will cling to a hope that before last Thursday I never thought possible. 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts in the comments (after you're done throwing things, of course). Take care, loves. 💖


	11. Bake for 1 hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, Lovelies!
> 
> How are we doing? It's a hell of a time to be alive, right? 
> 
> Before we dive into this week's chapter, a couple things.  
> 1) I screwed something up in Chapter 10. Something did not copy and paste over correctly and I realized it when I was skimming through yesterday. I've fixed it this morning and while it's not earth-shattering or plot-altering in any way, I do think it really adds to the story, so I think you will not be disappointed if you flip back to chapter 10 real quick and scroll down to the scene where Cas is describing how he sees the Roadhouse to Jo. Thanks and my apologies for the screw up. 💖  
> 2) I had some real-life goings-on yesterday that prevented me from being able to dedicate as much time to clearing out my inbox as I usually do (which is a SIGNIFICANT amount of time each weekend, because y'all are so awesome! 💖) If I haven't responded to your Chapter 10 comment, please don't let it deter you, I promise I will
> 
> Regarding this week's chapter, thanks so much to [EllenOfOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz) and [LadyRandomBox](https://www.instagram.com/ladyrandombox/?hl=en) for their beta work and of course, to LRB for another impossibly adorable kitten piece! I am so incredibly lucky to have such talented and generous friends. 💖💖💖
> 
> As per usual, my thoughts on last week's episode (OMG I only get to say that one more time after this!!😭😭😭) will be in the end notes. My notes and the comments will not be spoiler free, so be careful not to look too closely if you are somehow a magical unicorn who has avoided spoilers thus far this season.
> 
> ***EDIT***  
> Please note: No kittens come to harm in this story. If you have triggers or sensitivities surrounding cats/pets and need more information, you can contact me via [Twitter](https://twitter.com/MandalaRose2) or [Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/mandala.rose.5891) for spoilers.
> 
> All my love and thank you, so much for reading! 💙💚

“So the thing’s flappin’ around all over the place and I’m like, ‘Dude, you can’t leave that thing here, it’s a freakin’ eagle,’ and the guy just goes, ‘So? This is an animal rescue isn’t it?’”

Charlie takes a drink from her beer before continuing. “Uh, yeah. For _reptiles!_ ”

Leaning toward Charlie, Jo asks, “So what did you do?”

Dean hides his grin behind his beer. By the way Jo’s been hanging on every word Charlie’s said all night, it’s pretty clear she thinks “pet store girl” is just as cute in person as she had in Dean’s story. He’s glad Cas thought to invite her to his apartment-warming party.

“There wasn’t anything I could do,” Charlie continues animatedly. “The guy’s all, ‘Look, I’m late for work and I can’t take this thing with me.’ So I had to call animal rescue and wait three hours for them to get there while trying not to get shredded by an eagle with a fractured wing. This thing was _huge_ too. I’m not even sure how the guy got it in his car in the first place.”

Dean chuckles appreciatively as he glances between Charlie, where she’s seated on the dark brown sofa Cas said he picked up at a discount furniture store and Cas himself, who’s perched on the edge of a matching armchair.

“So did Charlie have you volunteering to take care of abandoned reptiles and the occasional injured bird in college too?” Dean asks their host. “That’s where you two met, right?”

“It is,” Cas agrees, “but no. I left the reptile rescuing to Charlie.”

“Cas has always preferred the soft and cuddly critters,” Charlie says to Dean, who smiles. He hadn’t realized Cas was an animal person. He wonders vaguely how his friend feels about cats and if he should mention Cupcake. Thoughts of Cupcake naturally lead to thoughts of CJ and Dean pushes down the accompanying pang in his chest. They’ve exchanged a few messages back and forth over the past week, but nowhere near as many as usual.

Maybe Dean’s imagining it, but their conversations feel awkward and stilted now, like CJ is holding back. Dean can’t figure out if it’s lingering guilt or if this is the other man’s way of distancing himself. Either way, Dean can’t let himself be all in again with CJ until he’s sure he’s not jumping into an abyss by himself. So instead, he’s focused on spending more time with his in-person friends. Cas’ invitation to this party was actually a huge relief. Otherwise, Dean would probably be sitting at home, staring at his silent phone.

“And we only sort of met in college,” Charlie adds. “Cas was the college boy. I was a townie.”

“You didn’t get a degree?” Jo asks from her seat next to the redhead on the sofa.

“And miss out on all the glamour and glory of being ‘Pet Shop Girl?’” Charlie grins, eyebrows raised dramatically. “Never!”

“But with everything you can do with computers, you could be making way more money,” Dean can’t help but point out.

“Who says I’m not?” Charlie asks with an eyebrow waggle.

“The pet store and The Bean aren’t Charlie’s main sources of income,” Cas explains. “She’s a ‘freelance online entrepreneur,’” he adds, complete with the dorky air quotes Dean still loves.

Jo squints at Charlie. “Is that code for ‘secretly a computer hacker?’”

Charlie just grins around the lip of her beer bottle and Dean bites his lip as Jo’s eyes widen, clearly impressed.

Shoving thoughts of CJ to the side, Dean asks Charlie, “So how did a townie-maybe-computer-hacker end up best friends with a Novak?”

Setting down her beer, Charlie’s grin widens as she shoots a sly look at Cas. “Easy. He was another rescue. He was just a tiny, defenseless baby gay when I found him.”

Everyone in the room laughs as Cas narrows his eyes and sips his beer primly. “I wasn’t that bad.”

Charlie lets out an inelegant snort. “You totally were, dude.” She turns eagerly toward Dean. “He wasn’t even out of the closet yet when I met him. My gaydar went off like a siren though, even if he was trying to hide all that fabulous under layers of pajama pants, stained hoodies, and poor hygiene.” Her words are teasing, but the look she shoots at Cas is soft and full of affection.

“Really?” Dean looks at Cas in surprise, who rolls his eyes.

“It was college, Dean. Did you think I wore business suits to freshmen lit?” A barely there smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

“Well yeah, kinda,” Dean answers with a shrug. “You’re just so put together, man. I dunno, it’s hard to imagine you wearing a shirt without a collar. Hell, I’m still trying to get used to seeing you in jeans.” Dean tries not to blush at the accidental admission. Maybe he should slow down on the beer.

It’s true though. Dean had nearly swallowed his tongue when Cas opened his apartment door wearing thigh-hugging jeans, the first two buttons of his navy button-down undone.

“There’s no need for imagination, Deanie Bean,” Charlie coos, swaying a little as she leans forward to pick Cas’ phone up off the coffee table. “There are pictures!”

“Charlie, no.” Cas’ eyes widen as he jumps out of his chair, reaching for his phone. Dean’s quicker though, leaping off the bar stool he’d pulled up next to the sofa and stepping over both Charlie and Jo, scooping up the phone in his hand as he plunks himself down next to the redhead. Having been aiming for the same sofa cushion as Dean, Cas ends up practically in his lap as the girls shuffle over to give everyone more space.

Trying to ignore the feel of Cas’ leg pressed against his, Dean clears his throat and waggles the phone triumphantly. “Now, it’s embarrassing family photo time.”

“You’ll need my password to get it,” Cas’ smug voice is far too close to Dean’s ear and he suppresses a shiver.

“Please,” Charlie snorts inelegantly as she deftly types in a number, successfully unlocking the phone in one try. “You’ve used the same pin since college, dude. You should really change that. Like the new phone though.”

Cas visibly pouts as Charlie scrolls through his photo storage, the phone still clutched tightly in Dean’s hand, just in case Cas gets any further ideas about avoiding his fate.

“New phone?” Dean asks idly as he watches Charlie scroll backwards through Cas’ Facebook photos, fascinated as he watches the man next to him de-aging on-screen.

“Yes. My old one died a watery death in the great flood last weekend. That’s why I had to call you from Sam’s phone.”

“Oh, right. You didn’t mention your phone, but I guess that makes sense,” Dean says slowly. This new piece of information tugs at something in the back of his slightly tipsy mind, but before he can examine it, he’s interrupted by Charlie’s triumphant shout.

“Here!”

Turning his attention away from Cas’ scowling face and toward his phone instead, Dean’s greeted by a much younger and clearly inebriated Castiel. He is indeed wearing a gray hoodie and what look to be plaid pajama pants. His eyes are bleary and bloodshot, his hair is longer than it is now and sticking out at all angles, and there’s a flush to his cheeks that Dean thinks probably has as much to do with the arm around his shoulders as it does alcohol, especially if the coy smile he’s giving the camera is any indication.

The image squeezes something soft and vulnerable in Dean’s chest. It’s no wonder Charlie was drawn to this younger Cas. The boy next to him however, he looks as brazen and outrageous as Cas does shy and sweet, with his rakish grin and ridiculously plunging V-neck sweater.

“Who’s the douche?” Dean asks with a grin, tapping on the smug idiot before handing the phone back to Cas.

“Balthazar,” Cas chuckles, looking over Dean’s shoulder. “He was—”

“Cas’ first big gay thing,” Charlie finishes for him, giggling.

Cas shrugs, a small smirk playing at his features. “He had an average gay thing, at best.”

Jo snorts again and Dean shakes his head. “What the hell did you see in that guy? I can feel the sleaze from here.”

Shrugging again, Cas confesses, “He was an international student. The accent was hot.” Rolling his eyes at Charlie, he adds, “And I was a bit of a mess.”

As Charlie beams at him, Dean chuckles. “Don’t feel bad, man. I wasn’t any better back then. I was a certified bisexual disaster.”

“Was?” Jo raises a skeptical eyebrow and Dean sticks out his tongue.

“Fuck you, Harvelle.”

“Not if it was my last night on earth,” she retorts before leaning forward to look past Charlie and Dean at Cas, “Dean’s not kidding though. He didn’t _come_ out of the closet. He fell out of it…and into Bela Talbot’s pool when Aaron Bass kissed him at her graduation party.”

“That’s not why I fell in the pool,” Dean argues, trying to ignore the way he can feel his face warming. “I tripped.”

“Yeah, over your big gay feelings for Aaron.”

“Alright, fine. If we’re trading disaster bi stories, why don’t we talk about the Banes twins.”

Pulling her knees up so she can rest her chin on them, Charlie grins eagerly at the now blushing Jo. “Oooh, yes. Let’s!”

Jo opens her mouth to tell the story, but Dean stops her with a hand before clambering to his feet. “Hold on, hearing that story once was more than enough for me. I’m gonna get another beer. You want one, Cas?”

Looking between Jo and Charlie, Cas wisely takes the offer of escape for what it is.

“I think I’ll come with you.”

Dean offers a hand and pulls Cas to his feet, not noticing at all how warm Cas’ palm is against his own…or how those long fingers feel wrapped around his. Clearly a little tipsy (Dean gets the feeling Cas doesn’t drink a whole lot), Cas teeters a little at the sudden change in position.

Chuckling, Dean brings his other hand up to steady his friend, also not noticing how firm Cas bicep feels under the dark blue shirt that makes his eyes sparkle like sapphires…not that Dean noticed.

Dean’s good at not noticing things.

Just like he’s also definitely not noticed that CJ hasn’t messaged him once all night. Pushing that thought away just like he’d pushed Aaron Bass away before turning around and stumbling into Bela’s swimming pool, Dean leads the way to the kitchen, reaching into Cas’ fridge and pulling out two more beers.

Handing one to Cas, he nods back toward the living room, where Charlie and Jo are still sharing a single couch cushion, even though they now have the entire sofa to themselves again.

“Well, that’s interesting,” he comments.

Cas smiles softly at the two girls as Jo holds her hands up to make a “this long” gesture that Dean definitely does not want context for while Charlie howls.

“I had a feeling they’d get along.”

“So, Charlie really moved here with you from the east coast?” Dean asks. “That’s some friend.”

“She’s more like family,” Cas agrees. “And actually, she moved to Chicago with me first. That’s where Novak Corp’s main office is. After the arrests, I crashed on her couch for a little bit until Gabe called and asked me to move out here and help with The Bean. I didn’t even realize she’d decided to come with me until she came home one day loaded down with moving boxes.”

Dean smiles, but before he can say anything, Cas goes on, looking down and fidgeting nervously with his beer, “She’s also not wrong. I really was a mess when she found me. Coming out…even just figuring out who I was…it wasn’t an easy process for me. It was like I thought if I showered every day and used hair products, people would _know_.” He chuckles humorlessly. “Or maybe I thought if I had no fashion sense and was a walking greaseball I couldn’t really be gay.”

“Yeah, but did you literally run away from the first guy who ever kissed you and then trip and fall face first into your ex-girlfriend’s pool?” Dean smirks triumphantly as Cas presses his lips together, clearly trying not to laugh. A little self-deprecation is well worth taking that pained look off his friend’s face.

“No. I suppose I can at least hold onto that.”

“There ya go.” Dean licks his lips. “I guess coming out isn’t a graceful process for anyone, no matter where you come from.”

“It’s messy,” Cas agrees. “Maybe it’s easy for some people. I hope so. Or at least I hope someday it will be. But I think for most of us there’s a lot of learning… and unlearning to be done. And that’s even without adding in the worrying about how the people around you will react.”

“Mmm,” Dean agrees around a mouthful of beer. “You aren’t wrong there. You know, if my dad were still around, I’m not even sure I’d be doin’ what I’m doin’ now.”

When Cas looks at him quizzically he adds, “Baking. He was a mechanic, owned his own garage and practically raised me in it. He wanted me to take it over some day and more than anything, I didn’t wanna disappoint him.”

“He didn’t approve of your interest in baking?” Cas asks, raising an eyebrow but keeping his voice neutral. “When you spoke of your parents before, it sounded like he was pretty supportive of your mother’s ambition to open a bakery.”

Snorting humorlessly, Dean drops his eyes to his beer. “Sure. Baking and decorating cakes and cookies and stuff’s fine if you have two X chromosomes. But if you’re a guy it’s ‘fruity shit.’”

“Ah,” Cas says softly and Dean bites his lip, acutely aware that he’s just shared more of his personal life with Cas in the past twenty minutes than he has in the past five months. Sam and Jo both had points though. Dean’s apparently willing to open himself up completely to an online stranger, while pushing away anyone in his real life who tries to get too close. He’d written Cas off completely, without even bothering to get to know the real him. He feels more than a little guilty about all of the crappy assumptions he’d made about someone who’s been nothing but kind and generous to him since the moment they met.

The least he can do is let Cas in a little. First though, he’s gonna need a little more liquid courage. As he talks, Dean deposits his empty bottle on the counter, taking Cas’ and doing the same before retrieving each of them a new beer from the fridge.

“Yeah, so y’know, I tried my damnedest to be the son he wanted, one he could be proud of, could love. But that life just never…fit. Like wearing someone else’s shoes. Worn in all the wrong spots and rubbing at the same spot until just walking in them hurts.”

The look on Cas’ face is so full of understanding that Dean would turn tail and run away just like he did at Bela’s pool party if it didn’t also feel like that gaze was rooting him to the spot.

“Dean,” Cas starts, voice quiet, but confident, “Your father was wrong. I’m sorry you lost him, because I know that you loved him very much, but I’m glad that you’re finally living a life that fits.” He hesitates a moment, nervousness tightening the corners of those baby blues, before he goes on. “Even after coming out, after college, I spent so many years in a career and a life that didn’t fit. I was miserable.”

Dean’s eyebrows raise of his own accord. “You didn’t love the Richie Rich life?”

One side of his mouth quirking up in a sad half-smile, Cas chuckles. “Don’t get me wrong, it had its perks. It was nice to be able to afford my…hobbies, without having to worry. And not having to clean my own toilets or do laundry were certainly plusses.”

“You didn’t do your own laundry?” Dean asks in wonder.

“No,” Cas admits sheepishly. “I actually didn’t even know how until Gabriel taught me.”

“Be honest. How many shirts did you shrink or turn pink when you first started?” Dean grins.

“None,” Cas says primly, before adding, “There was, however, an unfortunate incident with an iron.”

Feeling his lip’s twitch, Dean bites his cheek to keep from laughing outright, which does not go unnoticed by Cas, who glares at him.

“As I was _saying_ , this past year has been one of hardest and most terrifying experiences of my life, but it’s also been the most rewarding. My work at The Bean, this apartment, they’re the first accomplishments I’ve ever actually felt proud of. I’m sure that sounds stupid to you, but it’s true.”

Dean frowns at that. “It doesn’t sound stupid at all Cas, but I’m sure you’ve done lots of things to be proud of. Hell, just managing not to turn out like your shitty family is something to be proud of. Leaving them and starting over on your own is something to be proud of.”

“Maybe,” Cas says in a voice that tells Dean he doesn’t believe it one bit. “Regardless, this apartment may not seem like much, but it’s mine and most importantly it’s _not_ Gabe’s. As much as I appreciate everything he’s done for me, my brother is far from an ideal roommate.”

“Wait, you’ve been staying with Gabe all this time? I knew you had a roommate, but you never told me—”

“That I’ve been living on my brother’s charity for the past year? I may have deliberately down-played that part when we met.”

“Why?”

“Dean, when I met you I was a penniless thirty-year-old man from a disgraced family who didn’t have so much as a mattress to call my own. I wasn’t exactly a catch.” Blushing, Cas avoids Dean’s eyes as he adds, “I was a mess and you were…you. I wanted to impress you.”

Completely unable to help himself, Dean grins. “Well, nearly burning down a community college was definitely one hell of a first impression.”

“You were distracting.”

Eyes widening, Dean swallows involuntarily. Is Cas saying what it sounds like he’s saying here?

“So what,” Dean teases, praying he sounds more casual than he feels, “now that we’ve decided to just be friends, you’re not worried about impressing me?”

Cas hesitates before answering slowly, as if he’s carefully feeling out each word, “I’ll admit, knowing where your interest lies does take a little of the pressure off…in a way.” Looking up nervously, he adds, “But I guess I’m hoping that who I really am might be enough.”

“ _Enough for what?”_ is on the tip of Dean’s tongue, but he pulls it back, not sure he’s ready to hear the answer. Instead, he says the only thing he can.

“Of course you’re enough, Cas. You always were. I’m sorry if I made you feel like you weren’t. My life ain’t exactly glamorous, man. You don’t need to worry about trying to impress me.”

Cas frowns. “You may not have a lot of money, but you have skills and life experience that I’m sorely lacking in. I didn’t even know how to make macaroni and cheese when Gabe took me in. I was living on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for a while.”

“Not exactly surprised.” Dean smirks. “I’ve seen you try to boil water.”

A small smile tugs at the corners of Cas’ lips as he elbows Dean and rolls his eyes.

“For what it’s worth,” he says suddenly, “I’m sure it would have been difficult at first, but from what little I’ve heard you say about him, I think it’s likely that in the end, your father would have come around and supported you. It sounds as though he loved you, even if he didn’t always show it very well. I can’t imagine anyone being around you for any length of time and not—” Flushing, Cas cuts off, eyes darting away.

Dropping his own eyes to his hands, Dean opens his mouth to tell Cas it doesn’t matter, that it was all a long time ago, to make a joke and brush off the vulnerability he’s drowning in right now, only to close it again as a sudden shadow falls across the mostly empty beer bottle he’s fidgeting with. Looking up in surprise, his vision fills with blue as Cas catches his eyes from his new position right in front of Dean, the glare of the kitchen dome light flaring out behind him like some half-assed, incandescent halo. They’re as close as they were on the sofa, as close as they were that quiet morning in the bakery, and Dean feels the same electric charge he felt between them then. He wouldn’t be surprised to see the toaster start sending up sparks right now, caught in whatever the hell is happening here.

“Dean…” Cas swallows and wets his lips nervously, Dean’s eyes tracking the motion. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Dean sways forward just a bit, like iron shavings pulled toward a magnetic force. He’s not sure what’s about to happen, but he’s had just enough to drink tonight that finding out seems like an excellent idea.

“Nice digs, little brother! No weird serial killer vibes or anything.”

Dean starts backward, knocking over the empty beer bottles on the countertop with a clinking that sounds at least three times louder than should be possible.

“Sorry,” Gabe says unapologetically, eyebrows lifting as he leers from the kitchen doorway. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Gabriel, the key I gave you was for _emergencies_ ,” growls Cas, the pink in his cheeks broadcasting the fact that yes, Gabe is in fact interrupting something.

“Please.” Gabe rolls his eyes. “As distracted as you two were, I could have been pounding on the door and you’d never have noticed. Besides, how do you know the girls didn’t let me in?”

“We wouldn’t have, if you hadn’t just admitted as much,” Dean points out.

“Touché,” Gabe concedes with a nod in Dean’s direction. He opens his mouth to say something more when a sudden squeal from the living room draws all three men’s attention.

“Shut up!” Charlie nearly shouts, wide eyes bouncing between Dean and Cas as she nearly vibrates off the sofa. “How did I not know this?”

“Excuse me,” Cas says, eyes wide as he abruptly strides out of the kitchen toward the two girls, already pointing a finger at Charlie as he goes. Dean blinks in confusion, but before he can even start to figure out what has Cas glowering like that, Gabe’s voice draws him back.

“Actually, Deano, you’re who I was coming in here to talk to. I have everything we talked about ready to go. I even brought the papers for you to look over,” he adds, pulling a manilla envelope out from underneath his arm.

Dean perks up, thoughts of whatever had Charlie looking so giddy chased away by the documents Gabe unsheathes from the envelope. He starts flipping through them as Gabe talks.

“Once you sign this lease and contract, you’ll no longer be an employee of The Bean and will instead be our kitchen tenant, so-to-speak. You’ll have access to the kitchen six days per week and we’ll contract with you for pastries for the same number of days. The Sweet Bean will receive a portion of the profits for any catering events that are booked through us, but we’ll also provide transport for all baked goods and coffee supplies and an additional employee to help man the events. Any profits you receive for other orders are one hundred percent your own. Sound like what you were after?”

Dean nods as he turns the pages before him, until he reaches the last page.

“Yeah, this all looks great, man, except the rent.” He looks up to try and catch Gabe’s eye, but the supposed businessman has turned and is instead rummaging through Cas’ freezer. A moment later he resurfaces, triumphant, a pint of honey vanilla ice cream in-hand.

“What’s wrong with it?” he asks innocently as he forages in a nearby drawer for a spoon.

“It’s nearly half what we agreed on,” Dean accuses.

“Sorry, Deano, but that’s my final offer.” The statement comes out somewhat garbled around Gabe’s mouthful of ice cream, but Dean understands enough, opening his mouth to argue. Gabe cuts him off with a raised hand.

“You’re as bad as Cassie, you know that?”

“How so?” Dean asks, quirking an eyebrow in response.

“He’s never wanted to take a hand up either. From the time he was a kid. I remember when he totally forgot about a paper he had to write in eighth grade. Half-assed the whole thing the night before it was due, convinced he was gonna fail. Thing is though, Novaks don’t fail. When the prep school teacher gave him an A anyways, he was livid.” Gabe smiles fondly. “Worked three times as hard after that, determined that if he was gonna get the As, he’d at least deserve them.”

Dean smirks. “I’m gonna guess you never had those kinds of moral dilemmas.”

“Not hardly,” Gabe agrees as he digs another spoonful of ice cream out of the cardboard container. “Don’t get me wrong, I have my limits, but takin’ an easy A’s not one of them. Cassie though, he was that way all through high school and college. Refused to even apply to any university our family had ever donated to and when it came time to look for a job after school, he eventually caved to Dad’s pressure to join NovaCorp, but he did it on his own terms.” The shorter man looks more than a little proud as he explains, “He refused to take an executive job with no experience, and actually negotiated _down_ to an accounting position. Best part is, that’s probably what kept him out of jail when it all went belly up. He was far enough removed from the top that the investigators could believe he didn’t know anything.”

“But he _didn’t_ know anything,” Dean protests, not even questioning why he’s so certain of this fact. “Cas never would have gone along with that.” He may not have any objective reason to believe it so strongly, but Dean knows down to his toenails that Cas is innocent in his family’s scheming.

“Of course not,” Gabe agrees, waving him off with his spoon. “That’s my point. I love Michael and Luke because they’re my brothers, but between you, me…” Gabe tilts his head, “and everyone who hasn’t been living under a rock for the past year, they’re also giant bags of dicks. Cassie’s not like them. This whole shit show was the best thing that ever happened to him.”

Dean shakes his head disbelievingly, still trying to wrap his mind around how someone could give up all that money and seem so nonchalant about it. Dean’s spent most of his life worrying about money and, more accurately, how little of it he had.

“Yeah, Cas said something like that a few minutes ago, but I just don’t get it. He lost _everything_. I didn’t realize just how much until we were talkin’ today.”

Gabe shakes his head vehemently. “No. He lost _money_ , Dean. Money’s not everything. Especially not to Cas. The scandal gave him the push he needed to leave, but the truth is, he’s not meant for that world. Never was. He needed a chance at a different kind of life.”

As Gabe looks around the tiny kitchen appreciatively, a new thought occurs to Dean.

“You didn’t reach out to Cas because you needed someone to run The Bean, did you? You bought that shop _for_ Cas.”

Gabe becomes suddenly fascinated by the ice cream container in his hand. “You know, I don’t normally eat the vanilla, but this is pretty good.”

“How close was the shop to going under, really?”

“Close enough,” Gabe answers evasively, shrugging. “There were probably a few things I could have done to keep it afloat, but I knew Cassie’d straighten it out soon enough.” 

“Things you could have done? Are you saying you bought a business and deliberately let it fail?” Dean stares at Gabe, aghast.

Voice entirely unapologetic, Gabe answers, “Cassie might not be cut out for a cutthroat corporate life, but he’s still a hell of a businessman. If the shop hadn’t been legitimately in danger of closing, he’d have known and he would have called me on it.”

Dean is suddenly very aware that while Gabe had insisted that _Cas_ isn’t anything like the other Novaks, he’d never said he himself wasn’t.

“Not cool, man. How could you play with people’s livelihoods like that?”

A new fire flashes briefly through amber eyes more usually filled with laughter. “Hey, no one’s livelihoods were ever at risk. Worst case scenario, the Trans and company started selling ice cream instead of coffee. Besides, I knew Cassie could fix it. And he did.”

Dean shakes his head. “Why are you telling me all this? You know I could just run right in there and tell Cas you’re full of bullshit and have basically been manipulating him for months.”

“Months?” Gabe snorts. “Try years, Deano. And I’m sure eventually you will tell him. And sure, he’ll be pissed, but he won’t be surprised. Manipulation is a time-honored Novak family tradition. For everyone but Cassie. He’ll get over it though. He’s happier now than I’ve ever seen him.”

“Again, why tell me?”

“Like I said, Cassie needs a different life. He’s got a job that makes him happy now, but it’s not enough. He needs the American dream.” Gabe waves a hand in front of himself as he explains, “The house, the white picket fence, a couple of those sadistic purring fleabags that make me sneeze my ass off, and a guy that’ll treat him the way he deserves to be treated. One that doesn’t give a shit about his last name or his bank account. My little brother deserves that whole damn apple pie life, Dean, and who better to give him that than a baker?”

Stunned, Dean stands there, leaning against the counter for support as his brain struggles to come up with some kind of response. What finally comes out surprises Dean as much as it does Gabe.

“You’re allergic to cats?”

Cuddling the purring cat against his chest, Castiel gives her gray fur a few more lingering pats before he carefully sets her in front of the cat carrier, tossing a few treats inside to draw her in.

“In you go, Joony,” he croons to the feline, who nudges affectionately against his hand before trotting obligingly into the plastic carriers. Closing and securing the door, he turns back to the much larger cat enclosure and his final charge. Joon may have gone into her carrier willingly, but her foster brother, Benny, isn’t likely to be as cooperative. Donna had already warned Castiel that Benny’s not a fan of either his carrier or of being held.

Like pretty much everything else these days, Benny reminds Castiel of Dean. Well, more accurately, he reminds him of Dean’s friend Benny, the one who Castiel had once thought might be Dean’s secret and supposedly unrequited romantic interest. Realizing now that he had been jealous of _himself_ , he feels extra foolish. Spending time at the rescue today has been a nice reprieve from his constant Dean-centric internal struggle and Castiel is a little sad to see it end.

“Okay, sweet boy, your turn,” he says softly, giving the large tabby plenty of time to sniff his fingers and judge him worthy of his attention, which Benny eventually does, butting his head against Castiel’s palm in a way that feels less like a request for affection and more like an offering to kiss the Godfather’s ring. Chuckling, Castiel scratches the big tom’s ears, slowly moving his hand away and toward the center of the towel he’d lined the bottom of the enclosure with.

“I don’t blame you, you know. I’ve never liked feeling trapped either.” When Castiel finds just the right spot behind Benny’s left ear, the cat flops onto his side, seemingly forgetting that he’s supposed to be big and tough and soaking up the affection instead.

“You big softie.” Castiel chuckles fondly as he gently wraps the towel around the regal feline. When he slides one hand under Benny’s front legs and the other under his rear, the cat lets out a grumbled yowl, but doesn’t hiss or fight as Castiel deposits him rear first into the waiting carrier. After closing the door, he slips a couple of treats through the criss-crossed metal grate. Benny stares at them disdainfully for a moment before seeming to decide that he may as well make the best of a bad situation and begins eating one.

“Wowzers,” comes a voice from the doorway. “That’s the first time I’ve ever seen someone get that big lug in a crate without a single scratch. Color me impressed.”

Looking up, Castiel smiles at the owner and operator of Angel Rescue, Donna Hanscum. “He’s really just a big baby when it comes down to it.”

The plump blonde snorts, pushing a wayward fringe of hair out of her eyes as she leans against the doorjamb. “Maybe you oughtta be the one fostering him then. He seems to like you.”

Face falling into an apologetic expression, Castiel answers, “I’m afraid it’s going to be a few more weeks before I’m ready to foster. I spent most of my savings on new furniture and dishes for my apartment. It’ll take a little time for me to purchase enough food and supplies to be set up for fostering. Soon, though.”

Straightening up, Donna crosses the room to stand next to Castiel, nudging him with a plump arm while she sticks her fingers through the empty spaces of Joon’s carrier door to offer a chin scratch. “Don’t you worry about it, Castiel. I’m just teasin’ ya. We’re just tickled to have you back at all. You’re a natural.”

Castiel’s smile returns. “I’m glad to be back. I’ve missed this more than I realized.” He’d only volunteered with the rescue a few times when he first moved to Sioux Falls, before they realized that Gabe’s allergies were so severe even being exposed to the lingering dander on Castiel’s clothes post rescue work would send him into an itchy-eyed sneezing frenzy. Gabe had insisted it was fine, but Castiel wasn’t willing to make his brother suffer in his own home.

Now that he has his own apartment though, he’s excited to get back into the rescue world and can’t wait to foster again. He’ll just have to make sure he gives his charges plenty of affection first thing in the morning and make showering and dressing the last thing he does before he leaves the house. That should keep his brother from feeling miserable all day and becoming a health code violation by sneezing all over their coffee shop.

Saying his goodbyes to Donna and the cats, who are all headed back to their foster homes until the rescue’s next adoption event two weeks from now, Castiel makes his way back to the ancient gold Lincoln he’s been driving since he lost the ability to make payments on the BMW he’d had back in Chicago. Castiel pats the car affectionately. It might not be as flashy or fast…or reliable as the BMW, but Castiel is of the firm belief that his car makes up for its shortcomings in character.

Of course, Dean hadn’t been swayed by that argument the first time he’d seen Castiel’s “pimpmobile,” as he called it. Castiel shakes his head. His defensive reaction and muttered, “It’s only temporary,” in response to Dean’s teasing probably hadn’t helped the spoiled rich boy impression Dean had apparently cultivated. Hopefully, Castiel has managed to show Dean a different side of himself over the past couple weeks.

“You’re not a pimpmobile,” Castiel assures the Continental as he slides into the driver’s seat and pulls out of the parking lot, his drive home filled with thoughts of Dean now that there are no purring cats or squealing children to distract him. He’d been so close to telling Dean everything at his apartment warming party—had started to even—when Gabriel interrupted. After that he’d had to quell Charlie’s excitement before she gave the whole thing away. She’s _still_ mocking Castiel for managing to unknowingly fall for the same guy twice every chance she gets. Apparently, she’d thought they both knew one another’s alter egos the entire time.

By the time he’d managed to get Dean alone again, it was pretty clear the other man had finished a few more beers in Castiel’s absence. The way Dean was swaying on his feet told Castiel this wasn’t the right time for serious discussions or important revelations. So, he’d allowed Dean to be bundled out of his apartment by Charlie and Jo, who promised to get him home in one piece, and resolved to talk to him another day.

Of course, that was a week ago. Since then, Castiel has completely lost his nerve. He’s tried to bring it up a couple of times, but the only place he spends time with Dean is work and cornering Dean with a love confession in their place of business hardly seems appropriate. He’s picked up his phone to call the other man several times outside of work hours, but each time he’s chickened out. For his part, Dean has continued to treat Castiel the same as always, though the frowns and questioning looks Dean throws at him occasionally make it clear he realizes something is up. He seems content for now to wait patiently for Castiel to share whatever it is…and so the stalemate continues.

Letting himself into his apartment, Castiel can’t help but notice how empty it feels. He hopes he’s able to save up enough money soon to get the supplies he’ll need to start fostering again. He’ll have the benefit of Charlie’s employee discount at Purrs & Paws and all he really needs is a litter box, a few toys, and some cat food, especially if he sticks to fostering adult cats at first. Eventually, he’d like to foster kittens again and thinks he might be able to swing that with his work schedule. His apartment is only a few minutes’ drive from the coffee shop, after all. Dean is there most days and they’ve already started advertising for another barista/baking assistant to help with Dean’s catering jobs, so by the time he’s ready to start fostering, he should be able to slip away a couple of times throughout the day for kitten feedings. He’s also fairly certain he could convince Charlie to check in on them as well. She’d done the same whenever he’d had meetings he couldn’t miss back in Chicago.

He resolutely pushes away thoughts of him and _Dean_ taking turns doing kitten check-ins as he showers off all the cat hair and dander from his morning spent with the various cats and kittens at Angel Rescue. He’s definitely getting ahead of himself there. He doesn’t even know how Dean’s going to react to the realization that Castiel and CJ are the same person.

He’d like to think that Dean will give him a chance, but Jo’s voice still niggles at the back of his mind and he wonders if Dean will still think a relationship can’t possibly work between them. Or perhaps Dean won’t want to risk a relationship because they work together. That would be a perfectly reasonable stance, especially given that he knows just how important Dean’s bakery means to him. Castiel would never do anything that would jeopardize Dean’s business, no matter the outcome of their relationship, but he could hardly blame Dean for worrying.

Of course, there’s also the possibility that Dean will be so angry with Castiel for not revealing himself immediately that he’ll no longer be interested in pursuing something romantic with either him _or_ CJ. Not a day has gone by that Castiel hasn’t doubted and regretted his decision to take Jo’s advice and delay telling Dean who he really is. Every day that fear grows, but somehow that only makes it harder to confess.

Sighing, Castiel pulls on a faded t-shirt over his most comfortable pair of jeans. This is ridiculous. It’s time to tell Dean. Glancing on the clock on his nightstand, he reaches for his phone. Dean should be home by now, his baking finished for the day. Tomorrow is Sunday, Dean’s day off. Perhaps he’ll be willing to meet Castiel this evening or tomorrow afternoon to talk.

Moving to thumb open his text messages, Castiel sees the little envelope notification letting him know he has a Twitter message waiting. That can only be from “D.” He’s tried to keep messaging Dean as CJ, not wanting Dean to think that CJ is upset with him or ignoring him after their disastrous attempt at a date, but it’s been difficult. Every message feels like a lie, even if the sentiment in them is absolutely true. He can only hope Dean doesn’t see it that way once he discovers who “CJ” is.

Deciding he should read “D’s” message before texting Dean, Castiel taps on the notification. Not for the first time, he wonders how some people manage to live double lives like this for months or years on end. He’s been trying to be two people for the past two weeks and he’s exhausted. He feels a profound sense of relief that, one way or the other, it will soon be over.

The buoying feeling of relief turns leaden as he reads D’s message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *ducks*
> 
> Okay...
> 
> *ducks again*
> 
> OKAY. First of all, please remember what I've told you before: No kittens, real or fictional, were harmed in the making of this story. Cupcake is gonna be _FINE_. 
> 
> And yes, I do know that I am an incredibly cruel and evil person for leaving you with a cliffhanger on this of all weeks. I get it. I do. The timing is...less than desirable. But that's just the way the chapters fell. I promise I'm not deliberately torturing you. And to convince you of that, I will let you know that next week's chapter, it's a big one! Both in terms of plot and literally. That thing is almost 10k words long. So believe me, I will make it up to you! 💖
> 
> One more story note before I go on to episode discussion. Despite that little question mark in the chapter count, this story is drawing to a close. I would normally put the number there at this point, but I am still playing with some structural stuff and haven't quite figured out how I'm breaking up the last few scenes. So, this story will either be 12 or 13 chapters, plus an epilogue. That gives us 13-14 chapters in all folks. You will get a couple weeks of kitten fluff after the finale to comfort you and THAT actually was by design. I knew about when this story would be ending when I started posting. 💖
> 
> Okay, my episode thoughts were too long for Ao3's end notes, so I had to do a Tumblr post. You can read my rambling, [here](https://a-mandala-rose.tumblr.com/post/634941904005595136/running-onempty). Let me know yours in the comments!
> 
> I love all of you and will be thinking of you this Thursday. Let's bring it home. 💖


	12. Remove from pan and let cool completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies!
> 
> I am so very sorry this chapter is so much later than what you're accustomed too, especially since I know so many of you are in need of some kitten fluff right about now. I also apologize to those still awaiting responses to your comments from last week. I'm still hopelessly behind, but I will catch up. This week has been a very long year. My girls both had to quarantine this past week due to COVID cases amongst the staff at their daycare. We've all tested negative, but quarantining has meant trying to juggle teleworking, virtual learning, and a two-year-old all at the same time. It also meant cancelling my oldest's birthday plans and our Thanksgiving plans...which was going to be the first time I'd seen my parents and sister since February. So yeah, it's been a week...and then the THING happened Thursday night, but more about that later. 
> 
> Thank you so much [EllenOfOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz) and [LadyRandomBox](https://www.instagram.com/ladyrandombox/?hl=en) for beta-ing and arting of course...but most of all this week just for being you. Thanks also to the rest of my ever-widening circle of fandom friends who have held me close and carried me over the past few days and if I'm being honest (and I always try to be), the past few months. You all mean more than I could possibly say. More about that later too.
> 
> In regards to the chapter, I know we've all been through it this week, so I'm not going to be coy. If I thought there was any possibility that this chapter would add to anyone's pain and grief right now, I would not have posted it. If you'd like further reassurance before reading (and I totally don't blame you) hop to the end notes for spoilers. Also, I've added some new tags this week so check those out. You'll also notice that I did decide to end the story at 13 chapters. So, my loves, next week will be our last week for this particular Dean and Cas...for now. I'm already being poked for time stamps. 😂  
> And oh, about the Cupcake art, I do want to add that our dear kitten hasn't been on the sauce. The little troublemaker knocked over a beer bottle and then ended up cuddling with it when she found herself locked out of her usual sleeping area...😉
> 
> Lastly...the finale. As usual, I've included my reflections in the end notes. There are no spoilers, just general feelings and a whole truck load of mush from your author. Also...my angsting over those notes is a big part of why I'm posting so late today, so apologies.
> 
> And now. I truly hope you enjoy this extra long (and that's not ~~just~~ a euphemism) chapter. 💖

Having spent the drive to Dean’s neighborhood, a small manufactured home park on the outskirts of town, thinking of a plan to find or coax Cupcake back home, Castiel managed to completely forget that it was “CJ” Dean messaged for help and that he’s certainly not going to be expecting his friend Cas from work to show up instead.

Realization settles in as he pulls into one of the street-side parking spaces in front of the lot number Dean relayed and Castiel swallows. He can’t back out now. Dean loves that kitten as much as he loves the classic car he’s still saving up to repair, the one Castiel now realizes has been staring at him from the profile picture next to every message he’s ever received from D. Dean must be frantic with worry. Castiel has to do what little he can to help, even if Dean never wants to talk to him again after this.

Taking a deep breath, he strides up the short walkway to the beige-and-brown mobile home, climbing the wooden steps and knocking three times on Dean’s door before he can second guess himself.

A moment later, the door swings open, revealing Dean in a simple black t-shirt and jeans much like those he was wearing the first time Castiel had ever met him, cradling a purring Cupcake against his chest.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Castiel breathes, his knees weak with relief.

“Cas?” Dean asks, eyebrows lifting in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

Oh. Right. As far as Dean’s aware, Castiel has no reason to unexpectedly appear on his doorstep on a Saturday evening. He wasn’t invited here. CJ was.

“I…um, well I…Can I come in?” Castiel manages to stammer out the question, overtaken by a sudden fear that standing as they are, Dean might just shut the door in his face when he confesses to his deception.

Dean’s eyebrows lift higher. “Sure, man. Everything okay?” He backs up to allow Castiel access to his home. Castiel walks into the small living room, not missing the way Dean’s eyes are zeroed in on him as he surveys the space. The wood paneling and faded curtains may be a bit dated, but Dean’s home is clean and bright, the living area tidy and uncluttered. From his current vantage point, Castiel can see through to the trailer’s kitchen, every surface as spotless and well-scrubbed as Dean keeps his bakery.

Despite his nerves, Castiel finds himself smiling softly at the only sign of messiness in the room, a small pile of rather large shoes, clearly Sam’s, lying next to Dean’s neatly lined up sneakers and boots near the door.

“Is Sam home?” he asks. Dean’s posture relaxes slightly as he crosses the room, seating himself and Cupcake at one of the wooden stools on the living room side of the peninsula that separates this space from the kitchen.

“Nah. He works most Saturday nights. He won’t be home for a few hours yet. Something on your mind, Cas?”

“Yes,” Castiel admits. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Here it is. The moment of truth. Licking his lips, Castiel turns to face Dean fully, watching as the man sits with one foot propped up on the rung of his stool, stroking the orange cat in his arms like some sort of movie villain and looking at Castiel expectantly.

“I’m not who you think I am.”

Dean blinks.

“You mean, you’re not Castiel Novak, youngest son and would-be heir to the now defunct Novak empire? Uh, I hate to break it to you man, but I’ve seen your Wikipedia page. Unless you got a twin you were separated from at birth, I’m pretty sure that’s you.”

“No. I mean, yes, that’s me, but I’m also…someone else. Someone you know. I’m…”

As Castiel falters, willing the words to somehow find their way out of his mouth without his actually having to _say_ them, he sees Dean’s lips quirk upward, just slightly.

He narrows his eyes and the quirk turns into something nearing a smirk.

“You know.”

Dean’s smirk falls off his face and he looks down at the snoozing cat, scratching her under the chin.

“Of course, I know,” he scoffs.

“How do you know?” Castiel can’t help but wonder. Did Jo tell him? Castiel doesn’t think she would betray him like that. This was all her idea, after all.

“Figured it out after your party,” Dean answers dismissively before raising his eyes to give Castiel a sharp look. “The better question is, why didn’t _you_ tell me?”

“I tried,” Castiel defends helplessly. “The night of the party, remember? In the kitchen, I said I needed to tell you something, but Gabe interrupted us.”

“Yeah, but Cas, that was a week ago. You haven’t told me since then and you didn’t tell me before then. How long have you known?” A pained expression crosses Dean’s face and his voice is quiet when he asks, “Have you known the entire time?”

“No,” Castiel assures him quickly. “No, I never would have kept this from you. I never wanted to deceive you, Dean, and I certainly didn’t want to hurt you.” He winces. “Especially not a second time.”

“How long _have_ you known, then?”

As quickly as he can, Castiel explains how he rushed to the Roadhouse the night of their date, only to discover Jo there instead of Dean.

Shaking his head as if he can’t quite believe what Castiel is saying (and who could blame him?), Dean remains quiet until he finishes his story.

“So why not tell me then?” Dean asks once Castiel stops talking.

“It was Jo’s idea,” he answers lamely, shifting on his feet and feeling very much like a troublesome child who’s been sent to the principal’s office and asked to explain how exactly the newly liberated class hamster ended up in the ventilation system (which was entirely Gabriel’s fault for convincing a seven-year-old Castiel that the hamster deserved to be free).

Dean snorts. “Rule one,” he says, “don’t take relationship advice from Jo. The longest commitment she’s ever had was to the goldfish she won at the fair in seventh grade and even that thing only lasted three months.”

“She said if you knew I was…me, you’d bail. That you couldn’t see a relationship with me because of where…and _who_ I come from.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, Cas. I swear.” Shaking his head earnestly, Dean echoes the assurances Jo had given him that night in her mom’s restaurant. “I know you’re not like them. But you and me…we—”

“We’re from different worlds,” Castiel finishes drily, rolling his eyes. “Jo said you’d say that. That’s why she suggested I give you time to get to know me more as Castiel. To learn that we’re not as different as you think we are.”

“Well, aren’t we?” Dean asks. “My family owned a garage. Your family owned half the Midwest.”

“It hasn’t seemed to hinder CJ and D,” Castiel points out reasonably. “They seem to have discovered plenty of common interests.”

Dean scoffs, “What, like cancelled TV shows and horror flicks? What about the rest of it?” He gestures between the two of them. “What about all this is real? You said you were a ‘former paper pusher,’ but you conveniently left out the fact that it was as an accounting director for one of the largest corporations in the country. You said you got pulled into the family business, but you didn’t mention that your _family_ is a household-freaking-name. You talked about crashing with your brother, but you didn’t mention it was only temporary because you have fuck knows how many thousands of dollars sitting in a bank somewhere just waiting for the Feds to unfreeze it.” 

“You said you don’t like cats,” Castiel blurts out stupidly.

“Hey!” Dean admonishes as he cups his hands over Cupcake’s ears protectively. “Cupcake’s not a cat. She’s better people than most people I know.”

Cupcake expresses her appreciation by batting Dean’s hand away from her ears before finally hopping off his lap and twining herself around Castiel’s ankles instead. As he drops down to give the soft orange and white fur he’s seen in countless photographs a scratch, a new question occurs to him. “Was she even really missing?” he asks suspiciously. 

Dean’s guilty expression answers the question for him. “I wanted to see what you’d do.” He shrugs defensively. “If you’d fess up when I was surprised to see you here or if you’d, y’know…”

“Lie?” Castiel finishes for him. “So, your plan was to test my honesty by luring me here under false pretenses?” He raises an eyebrow and even though Castiel is literally kneeling at his feet, it’s Dean who squirms now.

“I didn’t say it was a _good_ plan,” he grumbles.

As Cupcake rubs her face against his palm affectionately before sauntering off toward the kitchen, Castiel looks up at Dean. “You gave her a chance. Why can’t you give me one?”

Dean rolls his eyes, but his voice is soft when he says, “Yeah, well, I didn’t have much of a choice with her. She started up that purring and rubbed her little whiskers against my face the first time I scratched her belly and I was done for.”

“I can one hundred percent guarantee I’ll do the same,” Castiel deadpans immediately and Dean snorts despite himself.

“You also said you didn’t know how to flirt,” he accuses with a pointed eyebrow. 

Castiel shrugs awkwardly from his position on the floor. “Maybe I was just flirting with the wrong people before. You make it...fun. I didn’t know it could be like that.”

“Son of bitch,” Dean breathes, shaking his head with a wry chuckle. “I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out. Who else says shit like that to me?” Seeming to come to a decision, he stands, reaching a hand out to Castiel. “Alright,” he says gruffly, gesturing upwards with a jerk of his head. “Get up.”

Feeling confused, but hopeful (Dean doesn’t _look_ like he’s about to throw Castiel out of his home), he reaches up to grasp the offered hand. “Okay,” he says as Dean hauls him upright and into his space. “What—”

“You owe me a date,” Dean explains with a smirk that would be close enough for Castiel to kiss off him if he weren’t in complete shock. 

Blinking as Dean lets him go and heads for the kitchen, he manages a question. “Does that mean we’re...okay?”

“Didn’t say that,” Dean calls over his shoulder as he rummages through the refrigerator. “That depends on how the date goes.” A moment later he resurfaces with a pound of ground beef and a couple of beers. “I waited for an hour and a half, man,” he says darkly. “I had to talk to _Meg.”_

“In my defense,” Castiel says slowly, his feet finally moving to follow Dean into the kitchen, “I had to talk to her too...and she may have tried to poison me.”

Pausing, Dean tilts his head in acknowledgement of Castiel’s near-demise before ducking back into the refrigerator and pulling out a head of lettuce and a large, ripe tomato. Wondering if this is Dean’s way of telling him he’s overstayed his welcome, Castiel decides he should probably wrap up their conversation and be on his way, even if leaving is the absolute _last_ thing he wants to do now that it seems like he might actually have another chance with the man in front of him.

“Did you have something in mind for our date?” he asks, hoping Dean can’t hear the way his heart is pounding behind his ribs.

“Yup,” Dean says, grabbing a bottle opener out of the drawer next to the refrigerator and popping the caps off each of the beer bottles before extending one to Castiel. “I thought I could cook you dinner. Here. Now.”

Staring between the beer in Dean’s outstretched hand and the ground beef on the counter, Castiel asks, “You want to cook me dinner for our first date?” 

“Well,” Dean nods to the meat, “I did promise you the best burgers in South Dakota.” Suddenly looking less certain, he adds, “If that’s okay. I mean, we don’t have to—”

“It’s wonderful, Dean,” Castiel interrupts quickly. “I don’t think anyone’s ever cooked me dinner on a date before,” he admits sheepishly.

Dean stares at him for a moment, his expression going soft, before grinning. “Well, that’s because they weren’t the Meat Man.” 

Castiel chokes on his beer. “The Meat Man?”

“Yup,” Dean answers happily as Castiel wipes his chin.

“That expression. I’m not sure it means what you think it means.”

“Oh believe me, Princess Bride, it does.” Dean tosses him a wink that leaves him feeling decidedly warmer than he was a moment ago, before adding casually, “Besides, this way I don’t have to worry about you standing me up again.” His teasing grin softens the words and Castiel shakes his head.

“You do realize it wasn’t my fault, right?”

“ _Meg_ ,” Dean retorts and Castiel rolls his eyes, not bothering to hide his own grin. 

“Can I help with anything?” he asks as Dean washes his hands and pulls down a large metal bowl.

“Sure. Grab that head of lettuce and start tearing off leaves. Then you can slice up the tomatoes, long as you promise not to cut off a finger. ER trips do not make for a sexy first date.” 

After dumping the ground beef into the bowl, Dean adds a conglomeration of spices and begins mixing it with his hands, a process Castiel refuses to watch. His Dean-hand-kink certainly hasn’t _lost_ potency since Castiel discovered Dean and D are one and the same and the last thing he needs is for it to kick in while Dean is pattying up raw meat. 

Washing his own hands and focusing on his lettuce, Castiel takes a moment to appreciate how Dean never chases him out of the kitchen or makes him feel bad for his culinary ineptitude. Instead, since the very first time they met, he finds a way to make Castiel feel included. 

“Can I ask you a question?” Dean interrupts his introspection, casting him a sideways glance as he shapes the beef into round, even patties.

“Of course.”

“How exactly _were_ you planning on telling ‘D’ about the whole Novak situation? I mean, if I hadn’t been him? And why didn’t you ever mention it before?”

“I was planning on telling you on our date,” Castiel answers. “Before then, would you have even believed me? Well, if you hadn’t already known _me_ , of course,” Castiel says and wow. Talking about being two people is turning out to be just as difficult as _being_ two people was. “I figured it was even money that you’d either think I was crazy or that I was catfishing you. Maybe both.”

Dean nods. “Yeah. I guess that makes sense.”

“Plus,” Castiel adds after a moment’s reflection, tearing the lettuce as he talks, “it was…freeing, getting to be someone other than Castiel Novak for a while. Knowing there was at least one person out there who, for reasons I still don’t quite understand, liked me for me. I didn’t do any of this to trick you, Dean, even before I knew you were _you_. I just...didn’t want to give that up.” Carefully stacking the lettuce leaves into a neat pile, he avoids Dean’s eyes. 

“I get that,” Dean admits, equally focused on stacking burger patties. “I liked being able to be someone else, too. Being able to just…I don’t know, talk to someone about shit that matters, without them knowin’ all my baggage and bullshit, you know? But I don’t know…” Dean trails off, shaking his head as he wipes his hands on a nearby towel before turning on the stove and adding oil to the heating skillet.

“What don’t you know?” Castiel asks curiously, placing the plateful of lettuce to the side and reaching for the tomato and knife sitting next to the cutting board.

Keeping his eyes on his task, Dean shrugs. “Look around you, man. This ain’t exactly fine dining.”

Castiel pauses in his slicing to study Dean’s profile, watching the other man’s cheeks tint pink under his scrutiny as he adds four burger patties to the waiting pan. 

“I know you don’t have access to your money right now or whatever,” Dean continues, “but I guarantee you there’ve been times when you’ve spent more money on a single meal than I do on groceries for the entire week. And I ain’t faultin’ you for that. Hell knows if I could, I would.” Grabbing an unlabeled container from the counter, he shakes it liberally over the burgers. “Garlic powder, salt, and pepper,” he explains at Castiel’s quizzical look. “My not-so-secret secret seasoning.”

“Mmm,” Castiel hums noncommittally as he layers the tomato slices on the waiting saucer, “You were saying?”

“I don’t know.” Dean swallows. “It’s just...after a life of prime rib, how’re greasy bar burgers on discount paper plates ever gonna be enough? How do you know that six months from now you’re not gonna get a craving and decide to go back to prime rib?” 

Dean’s cheeks are distinctly pink now, the double meaning to his words made even clearer by his shame-faced expression. Castiel’s heart aches at the sight. 

“I did tell you burgers are my favorite,” he says, going along with Dean’s metaphor. “And I’ve never really been a fan of prime rib, to be honest.”

“Well sure, burgers are great every once in a while, but that doesn’t mean you wanna eat ’em everyday.” Dean argues stubbornly as he flips their burgers.

“Coronary disease aside, why not?” Castiel asks, deliberately obtuse. “I’m fairly certain I could live quite happily on a daily diet of cheeseburgers.”

“I don’t know, man,” Dean says, gesturing with his spatula in exasperation. “Indigestion!”

“Indigestion?” Castiel asks, trying not to laugh as he arches an eyebrow in question. 

“You heard me...Indigestion,” Dean agrees as he layers a thick slice of cheddar cheese on top of each sizzling burger.

“Just to clarify, is our relationship giving me acid reflux or gas in this metaphor?” Castiel asks seriously, biting back a smile. “Because one of those is a deal breaker.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Dean laughs, lobbing a half-slice of cheddar at Castiel, which bounces off his chest and down to the floor, where a bundle of orange and white fur quickly pounces on it before hightailing it out of the kitchen with her prey. “You know what I mean.”

“I do know what you mean,” Castiel agrees, as he prepares two plates with the hamburger buns he finds in the cabinet Dean gestures at, “but money or no money, Dean, I’m never going back to the kind of life I led before. I meant it when I told you how miserable I was. Prime rib didn’t make me happy,” he adds, rolling his eyes teasingly at Dean’s food metaphor. “Burgers make me happy. _You_ make me happy. Is it so surprising that I’d want to stay with you?” 

Stepping past Castiel to wash his hands again at the sink, Dean dries them on a dishtowel before hanging it on the oven handle. “Yeah, well, you’d be the first,” he says with a forced lightness that causes a protective twinge in Castiel’s chest. Before he can comment though, Dean claps his hands and gestures to the freshly plated burgers. “Alright. Time to get our meat on.”

After dressing their burgers with the vegetables and condiments, they move to the small round dining table. Castiel settles into one of the spindly-legged chairs, very aware of Dean’s eyes on him as he picks up the first of his two burgers. “You know, some people might have made only one burger apiece and added a side. A salad maybe,” he teases. “But not the ‘Meat Man,’ I suppose.”

“You’re damn straight ‘not the Meat Man.’” Dean says, looking horrified at the very idea. “Now shuddup and eat your burger.”

Taking a bite, Castiel has an immediate change of heart. Dean didn’t lie. This isn’t only the best burger he’s had in South Dakota, it might just be the best burger he’s had anywhere. “Mmf,” he attempts before pausing and swallowing his mouthful of burger and trying again. “These make me _very_ happy.” 

Dean beams at him from across the table, and Castiel feels like the sun has come out for the first time in days. How could Dean think he would ever willingly give this up?

“I guess you weren’t joking when you said burgers are your favorite,” Dean chuckles, adding a moment later, “I still can’t believe you’re... _you_.”

“I know,” Castiel agrees. “It’s surreal. All this time I wondered how I could be so attracted to the hot baker in the next room while also being so...attached to someone I’d never met, and it turns out you were the same person all along.”

Hearing a plaintive yowl from beneath the table, Castiel looks down to see Cupcake rubbing up against his legs once more. “Hello you,” he murmurs, wiping off his fingers to give her a scratch under the chin. “I suppose we haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Castiel. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Cupcake sniffs his shoes in response, before flopping onto her side and rubbing her face against the laces.

“Traitor,” Dean murmurs at her before shooting a pointed look at Castiel. “Don’t be thinking you can win me over by sucking up to my cat.”

“Why? It’s not working?” Castiel jokes.

“Didn’t say that,” Dean mumbles around a mouthful of burger.

Castiel chuckles. “I’m sure she just smells the other rescue cats on my clothes.” Conversation turns to lighter topics after that, as Castiel tells Dean about his renewed work at the rescue and Dean tells him how he’s almost saved up enough money to begin repairs on his “Baby,” the 1967 Impala his dad left him.

It’s not until after their dinner is finished and their burgers are settling that they find their way back to something more serious. 

“And then I had to pedal his dumbass to the ER on the handlebars of my bike. Thought Dad was gonna kill me.” Dean takes a swig of beer number two, grinning proudly as Castiel laughs. 

“I can’t believe you actually convinced your brother he could fly.” Castiel shakes his head. “That’s just wrong.”

“Come on,” Dean grins, “I’m sure Gabe convinced you to do plenty of stupid things growing up.“ 

“There were definitely a few memorable experiences, but we were too far apart in age for him to do anything too horrible to me. Aside from the time he convinced me to liberate the classroom pet, he was much more of a menace to Michael and Luke. Mainly, I remember him making me laugh.” Castiel pauses. “It was very quiet after he left.”

“How old were you?” Dean asks, forehead scrunched up in concern.

“Eight,” he answers and Dean gapes at him.

“ _Eight_?” 

“Gabriel is ten years older than me,” Castiel explains. “Luke and Michael twelve. I was...something of a surprise.”

“But he knew all about how you were in school…”

Castiel chuckles fondly. “Just because he couldn’t contact me, doesn’t mean he didn’t keep tabs on me. My brother might be an unconventional Novak, but he’s still a Novak. I’m sure he knew both the goings on of the Novak household and business empire at all times. I’m actually not convinced he didn’t play a role in bringing it all down.”

A light bulb seems to go on behind Dean’s eyes. “Speaking of which, there’s something I should probably tell you…that night at your apartment, Gabe admitted that he only bought The Bean and let it fail so he’d be able to convince you to come and save it.”

“Mmm,” Castiel nods, “I can’t say that I’m terribly surprised. Gabriel isn’t nearly as impulsive as he lets people think he is. Well, he is, but only when he knows he has the money to back up whatever absurd risk he’s taking. I wondered at the time why he would have bought the place without someone to run it.”

“But doesn’t it bother you that he’s been lying and faking being an idiot all this time?” Dean stands, picking up Castiel’s plate with his own and heading for the sink. Castiel follows, collecting their half-finished beers and moving them to the countertop before stowing the condiments back in the refrigerator.

“Believe me, he’s still an idiot,” he says, passing Dean the now-cool frying pan from the stove as the sink fills with hot, soapy water. He knows Dean likes to stack all of the dirty dishes next to the sink before he begins washing. “My brother might be a schemer, but when it comes to day-to-day operations, he has neither the attention span nor the inclination to properly run a business. He might not have needed _me_ to manage The Sweet Bean, but he certainly needed someone. Besides,” he shrugs, “I suppose I can’t be too angry about it when it’s what brought me you.”

“I am one hell of a perk,” Dean winks as he begins washing the silverware. “You know, Gabe acts like such a perpetual twelve-year-old, I guess it’s no wonder I didn’t realize how much older he is. Towels are in that drawer,” he nods to a drawer between the stove and sink.

“What, you didn’t read _his_ Wikipedia article?” Castiel teases and Dean blushes. 

“Yeah, well, there’s really only one Novak I’m interested in,” he retorts and now it’s Castiel’s turn to blush. 

Castiel focuses on drying the freshly washed dishes as he considers his next words. “What you said earlier, about me being the first to stay with you…My childhood may have been privileged, Dean, but it was also lonely. I know what it’s like to be left behind and it’s not something I do easily to other people. Just ask Charlie,” he jokes as he reaches to return the plates to the cabinet he watched Dean pull them down from earlier. “I’ve dragged her across three different states now.” Reaching for the washed and rinsed frying pan (the last dish, since Dean always saves the pots and pans for last), he adds, “Whatever the capacity, be it as colleagues, business partners, friends, or something more, I plan to have you as a part of my life for a very long time.”

“Same, Cas,” Dean responds quietly, holding both the pan and Castiel’s gaze longer than necessary. 

Clearing his throat as he finally pulls his eyes—and the pan—away from Dean, Castiel adds, “And whatever does or doesn’t happen with us, what we’ve shared these past few months has meant more to me than you know.” Rubbing repeatedly at the same section of well-dried Teflon, he takes a deep breath. “Maybe it was just Netflix binges and cheesy movies to you, but to me? Those conversations got me through one of the most difficult periods of my life. I could come home at the end of a long day, knowing that there wasn’t just an air mattress and an empty apartment waiting for me, but a friend. There were so many dark nights you made better, just by being you.”

“You had Charlie,” Dean mumbles, a sudsy hand rubbing bashfully at the back of his neck.

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, “and she’s been amazing, which is exactly why I’ve tried not to lean on her so much. Plus, it’s not the same.” He quirks a grin. “She doesn’t send me adorable pictures of a cute kitten curled up with a sexy guy. Though she probably would if I asked,” he adds after a moment of reflection.

Eyes downcast, Dean snorts again softly, the corner of his mouth ticking upward in wry amusement. Castiel wants nothing more than to feel the curve of that smirk against his lips...To trace that teasing smile with his tongue.

“My point is,” he continues, “You asked what about all this is real.” When Dean looks back up, Castiel holds his gaze, strong and sure. “We are.”

“Cas,” Dean murmurs, but whatever he’s about to say next is suddenly interrupted by a blur of orange fur. Cupcake lands on the countertop to their left, knocking over a half-filled beer bottle with a very wet _thunk_ and looking quite pleased with herself for sticking the landing after her daring leap from the kitchen rug.

“Dammit, Cupcake, this is why we can’t have nice things,” Dean scolds the unrepentant kitten as he reaches for the rolling brown bottle. Castiel tears a fistful of paper towels from the roll next to the sink, leaning past Dean to sop up the beer before it can drip onto the floor. 

Mess mopped up and crisis averted, Castiel looks up to find Dean much closer, the distance between them suddenly erased. Instead of stepping back, Dean licks his lips nervously and Castiel is reminded forcefully of spilled coffee and an early morning almost-kiss. Dean even smells the same as he did that morning after he changed for the catering, that spicy cologne blending with the sweet scents of their baking and the earthier coffee notes. Wetting his own suddenly dry lips, he watches as Dean’s eyes drift down to follow the motion, the energy between them so tangible he’d swear he can feel his fingertips tingling with it. 

Terrified of breaking the spell, Castiel doesn’t move. He barely dares to breath as Dean’s eyes roam his face. Castiel isn’t sure what he’s looking for, but he must find it because a moment later one of those large baker’s hands Castiel adores so much cups his cheek, pulling him into a gentle kiss. Castiel goes willingly, as pliable beneath Dean’s fingers as the dough he shapes into fresh bagels each morning.

The kiss is slow but sure, Dean’s lips meeting his with a quiet certainty that soothes Castiel’s soul more than anything else has tonight. There’s nothing tentative or indecisive about the way Dean’s mouth moves against his. Nor the way his tongue teases at Castiel’s lips, begging an entry that Castiel quickly grants as he brings a hand to Dean’s hip, tugging him gently forward and tilting his head to deepen their kiss. Dean responds immediately, the fingers on Castiel’s jaw slipping into his hair as Dean’s free arm wraps around his waist, pressing them together from chest to hip.

Castiel isn’t sure how long they stand like that, but eventually, Dean begins to draw back, easing their kiss to an end. Castiel has to fight not to lean forward and capture those lips once more. As they stand there, still wrapped up in one another’s arms, ragged breaths mingling between them, Dean exhales shakily.

“So, what’dya wanna do now?”

Three episodes of _Buffy_ , two _Evil Dead_ movies, and one outstanding make-out session later, Dean blinks as the movie credits cut off, the TV flipping back to the title card. 

“Movie’s over,” he murmurs breathily as Cas’ lips continue their path along his neck. He hasn’t spent this much time making out with someone fully clothed since...fuck, high school maybe? It’s innocent and hot and thrilling in a way that Dean wasn’t expecting, but it’s about to get a lot less of one of those and a lot more of the others if Cas hits that spot on his collarbone. 

Fortunately (sadly), Cas pulls back after a final teasing swipe of his tongue. “For the record,” he says, his voice even deeper than it usually is and far more breathy, “when I told you we have lots of things in common, I meant things _other_ than your weird Bruce Campbell fetish.”

“It’s not a _fetish_ ,” Dean pouts, poking Cas in the ribs from his position underneath the other man on Dean’s shabby sofa. 

Cas grins and Dean feels himself melt. He’d put up with any amount of teasing to see Cas look like that all the time. “Alright, fine,” he says, looking up into those startlingly blue eyes, “aside from your poor taste in movies, I’ll admit, we do have a lot in common.”

“Does that mean I get a second date?” Cas asks teasingly. “Without having to wade through meat metaphors?”

The truth is, Dean’s known he’d give this thing between him and Cas a shot ever since he’d opened his door to find Cas on his welcome mat, looking completely distressed over Dean’s “missing” kitten. Really, he’d known since he first put the pieces together after Cas’ party and realized the two men he’d found himself so inescapably drawn to over the past months were, in fact, the same person. He’d wondered, at first, if Cas really had been catfishing him...if he’d been leading him on on purpose, but it just didn’t seem to fit. Cas was right, Dean may not have known everything about him when they were talking as CJ and D, but like he’d told Sam, he knew _him_. Still though, as the days had passed and Cas hadn’t said anything, Dean’s doubts had grown...hence the desperate and ill-conceived missing-kitten ruse. Not that he’s upset about how that turned out, of course. 

“That depends,” he pretends to muse, “do you promise to do that thing with your tongue again?”

Grinning wickedly now, Cas leans down and plants a kiss next to Dean’s ear. “Oh, I can do far more than _that_ with my tongue.”

Pushing Cas’ face away playfully, Dean groans, trying very hard not to shift his hips and give away just how much his body is into this turn of events.

“Fuck,” Dean breathes, “Not that I’m not enjoying this, but it’s getting late. I’d ask you to stay, but I know you don’t—” Dean inhales sharply as Cas shifts above him to better see his face—”usually hook up on the first date. I wanna respect that, but I think I’m gonna need to end this date in order to do it.” 

Cas sighs, planting a reassuring kiss on Dean’s lips before sitting up fully and climbing off Dean’s lap. “You’re right,” he says, turning away. Dean quickly takes the moment to not-so-subtly adjust the situation in his pants, Cas obviously doing the same...which of course makes Dean’s situation even _worse_ in what is going to quickly become the ninth circle of blue ball hell if he doesn’t get Cas the fuck out of here.

Standing up, Dean runs a hand through his dishevelled hair (which has nothing on the fucked-out mess Cas doesn’t even bother trying to tame). “I’ll walk you to the door,” he teases, placing a hand on the small of Cas’ back and guiding him the six steps across the living room.

“Thank you for the lovely evening, Dean,” Cas says coyly, before stopping and turning to face him. “Seriously, though,” he adds, “thank you for giving us a chance. “We may come from different places, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t traveling in the same direction.” 

Despite himself, Dean snorts. “And you make fun of _my_ metaphors. You read that in a fortune cookie, Confucius?”

“My apologies,” Castiel snarks drily, “I didn’t realize you were expecting poetry.”

“Of course I’m expecting poetry,” Dean teases, placing his hands on Cas’ hips and pulling him closer even though the theoretical goal here is supposed to include Cas moving farther _away_. “You’re supposed to be making up for standing me up. What, don’t Novaks know how to grovel?”

Castiel arches an eyebrow. “Are you saying you want me back on my knees?” he asks as he finally pulls away and steps into his shoes.

_Yes, please._

Dean swallows, “Dude. You’re making this hard.”

Before Cas can respond, Dean clamps a hand over his mouth. Cas’ eyes glitter with the smirk Dean can feel against his palm. Dropping his hand, Dean uses it to pull the beautiful asshole into another searing kiss as he opens the door. Reaching a hand up to cup Dean’s jaw, Cas draws him forward as he steps back, so that Dean ends up kissing him right out the door and onto the welcome mat beyond.

Finally breaking apart, Cas looks at him with a small smile. “You’ve walked me to the door and kissed me goodbye. Does this mean our first date is officially over?” 

Still a little breathless, Dean nods. “Yeah. I think so. Date one. In the books.”

Cas nods. “Good.”

The next thing Dean knows, he’s being pressed up against the living room wall, the screen door banging shut after Cas rushes back through it, his mouth slamming into Dean’s along the way.

“Ask me to stay,” Cas purrs in Dean’s ear, guttural and low, before nipping at Dean’s earlobe and pressing a kiss just below it.

“Stay,” Dean gasps out, his brain short circuiting at the feeling of Cas’ tongue tracing the shell of his ear.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Cas quips. Dean would have a witty comeback for that, he swears, but it’s kind of hard to sass with someone’s tongue rammed down your throat. Instead, he focuses on kissing Cas back, giving as good as he’s getting.

Shifting his stance against the wall, he pulls Cas to him, one hand sliding into that disastrous hair, the other fisting the back of Cas’ shirt. Cas slides eagerly into the space between Dean’s legs, moving forward until their bodies are flush against one another, save for the annoying layers of cotton and denim between them. That doesn’t stop Dean from being able to feel the outline of the erection Cas was trying to be discreet about just a few minutes ago though, pressing against his thigh.

On instinct, Dean tightens the arm around Cas’ waist, pulling him impossibly closer as Cas rolls his hips in response, pressing his own thigh into Dean’s suddenly aching cock. Suppressing a whimper, Dean breaks their kiss, burying his face in Cas’ neck. “Bedroom?”

He feels Cas nodding, the scruff that moved well beyond five-o-clock shadow while they were watching movies on Dean’s sofa grazing his temple before Cas pulls back. 

“Are you sure?” he asks, trailing a thumb over Dean’s cheekbone. Dean has to resist capturing the digit between his teeth so he can answer.

“Well, I didn’t wear my ‘I’m gonna get laid cologne’ for nothin’,” he answers lightly, waggling his eyebrows and flashing his best cheeky grin.

Barking out an unexpected laugh, Cas squints at him. “You wore the same one to the Roadhouse, didn’t you?”

Surprised, Dean fights a blush. How did Cas know that? “I might’ve,” he mumbles in a casual tone that’s sure to be a dead giveaway.

Cas raises an eyebrow. “Presumptuous.” 

Dean shakes his head. “Hopeful.”

Cas’ smile widens and Dean pushes off the wall, pressing another kiss against those soft, pink lips as he intertwines their fingers. After Cas kicks off the shoes he’d just put back on, Dean tugs him along, feeling suddenly grateful that the trailers’ two bedrooms are on opposite ends. 

Cas doesn’t waste any time once they reach Dean’s bedroom, pulling Dean into a long, slow kiss as they both fumble with buttons and zippers. Cas’ fingers drag over Dean’s pecs and down his sides, finally coming to rest on the waistband of his jeans as he pushes Cas’ open shirt off those broad shoulders, covering the newly exposed skin in wet, sucking kisses instead.

It’s not until they’re down to their boxer briefs and Dean is pressing Cas down into his memory foam that he realizes the fingertips Cas can’t seem to stop trailing across Dean’s face are trembling faintly. 

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, capturing Cas’s hand in his and pressing a soft kiss to those long fingers. 

Eyes shining in the dim light of Dean’s bedside lamp, Cas’ smile is a soft, quiet thing. “I’m...overwhelmed. In a good way,” he adds quickly when Dean tenses, preparing to move away. Cas’ hands move to Dean’s arms, anchoring him there as he explains, “I can’t believe this is really happening. I knew what I felt for D, for _you_ , was real, but getting to have you...like this? Getting to touch you...and _be_ touched by you? I wasn’t sure it would ever happen, especially not after I messed everything up.”

Dean shakes his head. “You didn’t mess anything up, Cas,” he assures. “One way or another, I think we were always gonna end up here.”

“I didn’t take you for the kind to believe in fate.”

“I’m not,” Dean agrees. “I just mean that no matter how or when our dumb asses figured this out, I think I still would have chosen you. Not because it was ‘meant to be’ or some bullshit, just because you’re _you_. We just...we fit. We’re better together, y’know?” Dean grimaces internally. Apparently his tendency to overshare and gush about his feelings to CJ like a thirteen-year-old girl with a poetry journal extends beyond Twitter DMs.

Leaning down, he kisses Cas soundly before pulling back far enough to murmur, “And because you have a great ass.”

Cas snorts. Not falling for Dean’s deflection, like fucking always, he threads his fingers through Dean’s hair. “I choose you too, Dean,” he murmurs as he drags Dean’s head down for another kiss.

Dean lowers himself down against Cas’ firm body, his dick becoming impossibly harder as it drags against Cas’ through the thin fabric of their underwear. Cas groans as Dean captures his mouth again, tongue plunging inside to taste and tease.

Cas hums as Dean works his way downward, kisses and day-old scruff dragging down pecs and abs that could make a man weep. The very same toned muscles he saw in that pre-shower photo CJ sent him, Dean realizes and abruptly he understands why Cas was feeling overwhelmed. This entire situation is so surreal.

Feeling dizzy with relief that they actually _did_ figure this out, that they’re finally _here_ , he nips at sharp hip bones before kissing his way along the waistband of Cas’ boxer-briefs. 

“Dean,” Cas whimpers and _goddamn_ the asshole has no right to be this hot.

Dean places a gentle kiss against Cas’ cock where it strains against charcoal-colored cotton. “Can I?” he whispers.

“Please,” comes the gasped response. 

As Dean hooks his fingers under the elastic waistband and begins sliding the fabric down Cas’ thick thighs, the other man props himself up on his elbows, watching with something like awe. Longer than Dean, if not as thick, Cas’ cock hits his stomach with a solid thwack that’s followed by a quiet gasp from its owner. 

Wetting his lips in anticipation, Dean admires the picture before him as he continues removing the only obstacle preventing him from having his head between those thighs. He refuses to rush though, sliding his hands slowly down Cas’ sculpted calves and enjoying the drag of Cas’ coarse hair against his palms. It’s been a long time since Dean’s gotten any and even longer since he’s been with a man. 

Since he’s been this intimate? Well, never.

He’s going to get this right.

Dean finishes pulling off Cas’ underwear, tossing them to the floor as Cas spreads his legs invitingly beneath him.

“Fuck, Castiel,” Dean groans, cupping himself through his own boxer-briefs as his cock gives a very interested twitch at the sight. 

Cas’ eyes zero in on Dean’s bulge, just barely concealed by black jersey. “I want to see you,” he begs. “Please.”

Quick to comply, Dean climbs off the bed, dropping his underwear and feeling his dick spring to attention as Cas brings a hand to his own leaping cock. 

“Oh, fuck,” Dean breathes. “You don’t know what you do to me, Cas. I’ve been thinking about you touching yourself ever since you sent me that goddamn picture.”

Cas grins and how he can be both shy and shameless at the same time is a mystery for another day. “Well, that’s fitting, since I’ve been touching myself and thinking about you for just as long.”

Dean waggles his eyebrows. “Yeah? Which me?”

Cas’ hand stills where he had begun to stroke himself lightly. “Both,” he admits quietly. “I...I hope that’s okay. I would start thinking about D, but it’s hard to picture someone you’ve never seen and somehow, he kept morphing into you.”

Remembering his own fantasy CJ ending up with very familiar blue eyes, Dean smiles. “I know the feeling.” He chuckles. “And you don’t need to apologize for fantasizing about me while you were fantasizing about _me.”_ Dean licks his lips. “Especially since you’re about to tell me about it.”

“I am?” Cas' hand starts slowly moving along his cock again and Dean stares, hypnotized.

“Yeah,” he answers hoarsely. “Wanna hear what you thought about.” 

“Your hands,” Cas answers immediately. “I kept thinking about your hands on me. Touching me. Stroking my cock.” Cas pauses. “Opening me up.” 

_Fuck._

“You got a hand kink, Cas?” he teases, trailing his hand down his own stomach before splaying his fingers wide below his navel.

Licking his lips unconsciously, Cas answers. “Only since I met you. Since that very first baking class.” Dean can’t tell if the flush in Cas cheeks is from embarrassment or arousal, but it’s gorgeous either way.

Stroking himself, Dean recounts his own favorite fantasy to Cas. “Honestly? I’ve wanted you just as long, Cas. As Cas, as CJ, just want you. So much.” He’s panting by the end and the flush from Cas’ cheeks has spread down his chest as his hand speeds up. “Kept thinking about you...thinking about me. Imagining me touching you in the shower. My hands all over your wet body, pressing up against you from behind. Kissing down the back of your neck as you’re stroking yourself...until I reach around, knocking your hands away and taking over.”

“Fuck, Dean. I want that. Wanted that for so long. Wanted _you_ for so long.” 

Dean had been looking forward to getting his mouth on that perfect fucking cock, but knowing about Cas’ appreciation for his hands changes the game plan a bit.

Bending down to open the drawer of his nightstand,he pulls out the bottle of Astroglide he keeps there, before straddling Cas on the bed.

Reaching for him immediately, Cas pulls him into another kiss. It starts out a little frantic, the edge amped up by their little show and tell session from a moment ago, but quickly deepens into something more sure as Cas’ arms come around him. 

Breaking their kiss on a gasp as their cocks finally come together, trapped between their overheated bodies, Dean rolls his hips. The friction feels fantastic and if he didn’t already have a plan, Dean would be happy to rut against Cas like this until they both find release. 

Instead, he rolls off Cas, settling beside him on the bed instead. “Turn this way,” he murmurs, placing his hand on Cas’ bicep and rolling the other man away from him. 

Cas turns obediently and Dean immediately crowds in behind him, molding his body to Cas’, his cock nestled snugly in the crease of that incredible ass. He bites back a whimper as Cas grinds his ass against Dean’s dick. 

Flipping open the cap, Dean hovers the lube bottle in front of Cas, shaking it gently in question. Slowing his hand, Cas nods and then gasps again as Dean drizzles the cool lube over his cock. “Don’t stop,” he whispers hotly in Cas’ ear, smirking to himself as Cas’ hand picks up pace again.

Dropping the lube on the mattress, Dean shifts, sliding one arm beneath Cas’ head, so he’s lying on Dean’s bicep. Cas hums appreciatively, bringing his newly freed hand up to twine his fingers with Dean’s and squeeze.

Squeezing back, Dean brings his free hand to Cas’ chest, splaying his fingers firmly against broad pectorals. He trails his fingers teasingly up and down Cas’ abdomen, causing the man to wriggle against him. When Dean swipes his thumb across a nipple, Cas groans loudly.

Dean’s never been good at expressing himself with words—he’s always been more of a hands-on guy, _heh_ —but he gets the feeling Cas might not mind that.

“So, you like my hands, Cas?” Dean whispers into Cas’ ear, gaining a breathy, “Yes. So much, Dean,” in return.

Smiling into Cas’ dark hair, Dean brings the same thumb up to Cas’ mouth, dragging it slowly across his lips until Cas opens for him. Dean slips his thumb inside and finds that he’s suddenly the one squirming as Cas eagerly swirls his tongue around the digit, sucking and sliding his lips along that thumb with such gusto it makes Dean’s cock twitch with what Dean can only assume is envy. 

Finally retracting his thumb, Dean drops his hand back to Cas’ chest and swipes the now wet digit over Cas’ nipple, rubbing in small circles that have the dark bud perking up beneath his touch and earn a sharp intake of breath from Cas. After giving the other nipple the same treatment, he slowly drags his hand down, feeling the ridge of every tense and trembling abdominal muscle as he moves closer to where Cas is, somewhat distractedly, stroking his own cock.

“And where do you want my hand?” Dean asks, sliding his hand down the dark happy trail towards Cas’ cock before diverting at the last second and smoothing over his solid thigh instead. _Fuck._ These thighs. 

“My cock,” Cas pants. “Touch me. Fuck. Please touch me.”

Dean obliges, moving to cup Cas’ balls in his hand first. The ragged moan Cas lets out at that sends a jolt straight to Dean’s dick and he has to bury his face in Cas’ neck for a moment. He’s supposed to be teasing Cas here, but he’s every bit as ramped up. He’s never wanted someone so bad in his entire life. And the fact that he gets to have this? 

“Kiss me,” Dean pleads against hot skin. Cas cranes his head toward Dean and Dean releases him long enough to place a palm against Cas’ cheek to help him along. The kiss is sloppy and desperate and perfect. Finally taking Cas in hand, Dean deepens the kiss as much as he can given the angle while Cas moans into his mouth.

Dean strokes the smooth, velvety length of Cas’ cock, hot and heavy and fucking divine in his hand, pausing only to add more lube. Cas whimpers at the cool lube, his head lolling side-to-side against Dean’s bicep. 

“More, Dean. I need more.”

“Anything you want,” Dean murmurs, planting a kiss against Cas’ sweaty temple. Cas seems a little too overcome for words, but Dean has a pretty good idea what the man trembling in his arms needs. Releasing Cas’ cock and letting his hand trail further back, he gets his confirmation when Cas wriggles, spreading his legs as wide as he can while still lying on his side. 

Dean grasps underneath Cas’ knee, drawing his leg up and over Dean’s own, so that Cas is lying partially on his back, legs splayed wide and wanton. 

Cas’s cock stands flush against his stomach, red and leaking, but neither man pays it any mind as Dean slips a lube-slick finger between Cas’ cheeks. 

“This okay?” he asks quietly, wanting to be sure. 

Cas nods weakly. “Just go slow. It’s been a long time.”

“Promise,” Dean says while pressing another kiss against Cas sweat-damp forehead. And how long has it been since he kissed someone so tenderly? “Never wanna hurt you, Sweetheart.”

“Same,” Cas murmurs with a smile that already looks hazy and fucked out when they’ve barely gotten started. Time to earn that smile.

Dean rubs gently over Cas’ hole, unable to suppress a grin at the way Cas wiggles and tries to spread his legs even wider, chasing the stimulation. He doesn’t tease long before slipping a fingertip past Cas’ furled entrance. 

“Oh God, Dean,” Cas moans as Dean slides his finger in and out, moving past the first knuckle and up to the second. 

“Okay?” Dean asks with a smirk.

“Fucking perfect,” Cas groans. “More. I want another.”

This has been more than Dean’s ever known Cas to swear, as either Cas or CJ, and it’s doing terrible, wonderful things to his neglected cock.

Dean slips a second finger in after the first, twisting slightly as he moves in and out of Cas’ body to increase the stimulation. It’s not long before Cas begins rocking his pelvis down to meet Dean’s fingers. 

Once Cas begins rocking in earnest and Dean is certain he can move his hand around more without giving Cas _too_ much stretch, he hooks his fingers and turns them in search of Cas’ prostate. A few thrusts of his fingers later he reaches his goal, drawing a half-moan, half-shout from the man writhing against him.

“Fuck! There, Dean,” Cas shouts brokenly and Dean happily obeys. 

“Can you take another finger or is this enough?” he asks, his own voice rough and wrecked, just from watching Cas.

“Another,” Cas answers immediately and Dean pauses, pressing a kiss to the damp curls at Cas’ hairline before he slides his arm out from beneath his head, sitting up halfway and repositioning so he can get a better angle. As promised, he adds a third finger before continuing to finger-fuck Cas, making the man beneath him keen with every touch to his prostate.

“Touch yourself, Cas. Wanna see you come. Fuck. You have no idea how many times I’ve pictured you coming in my mind.” Dean’s nearly babbling, but it can’t be helped. His dick’s so damn hard he’s pretty sure it’s making him light-headed at this point.

Surprisingly, Cas shakes his head. “Not yet. I want…”

“What do you want?” Dean asks when Cas hesitates, slowing his hand to stop and catching Cas’ gaze with his.

“I want you to come with me.” Careful to pull his fingers out slowly—he knows from personal experience that being left suddenly empty isn’t always the greatest feeling—Dean dives for Cas’ mouth, sliding his arm beneath the other man once more, in order to roll Cas toward him so he can deepen their kiss. 

Cas doesn’t stop there, however, swinging a leg over Dean’s hips and settling himself on top of Dean, who can’t do anything but stare up at the lust-blown blue eyes, flushed face, and dark, wild hair above him. Cas looks like an avenging angel, arrived in Dean’s bedroom to either reward or punish him and Dean would gladly take either option as long as it’ll keep Cas looking at him that way. 

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, completely in awe.

“You’re perfect,” Cas murmurs in return. “Gorgeous.” He leans down to kiss Dean’s forehead. “Kind.” His cheeks. “Selfless.” Their cocks graze one another maddeningly with each kiss and Dean whines as his hips buck up of their own accord. Chuckling, Cas leans over Dean one more time, rolling his hips teasingly as he grabs Dean’s pillows and prompts him to sit up so he can position them behind him.

Being propped up against the pillows presses his cock flush against Cas’ and Dean’s suddenly wondering if he’s about to regret all his teasing foreplay in the best possible way.

Picking up the lube, Cas pours some on his hand before wrapping it around both of them and stroking slowly. “It’s my turn,” he says breathlessly, speeding up his hand as Dean grips Cas’ thighs, holding on for dear life and praying he’ll be able to hold his orgasm off long enough to maintain at least some tiny amount of dignity. “I’ve wanted to touch you for so long, Dean. Wanted to feel you. Wanted you to be more than words on a screen.” 

“Hnngh,” is about all Dean can manage at the moment. He hopes Cas knows how heartfelt it is. 

Cas brings his free hand up to cover Dean’s where it’s clutching at his leg. Letting go of Cas’ other leg—no small feat—Dean adds his hand to Cas’ where it’s still stripping their cocks. The feeling of their cocks held fast together between their interlaced fingers is one of the most intense sexual experiences of Dean’ life. _Jesus,_ he’s been balls deep in someone (or vice versa) and not felt this level of intimacy. Dean can’t believe that there was ever a part of him that thought he could give this up. 

“Are you close?” Cas rasps above him.

“Close?” Dean squeaks, disbelieving. “I was close as soon as you climbed into my lap.”

“Good, then come for me, Dean.” Despite telling Dean to come, it’s Cas who does so first, thick stripes of hot come hitting Dean’s stomach and dragging him right over the edge as well. 

“Fuck, Castiel,” Dean nearly shouts as he watches his own release join Cas’. The sight is blocked out a moment later as 170 pounds of tanned skin and toned muscle collapse on top of him. 

“Oof,” Dean huffs, chuckling as Cas pants against his shoulder. “You okay?”

“I’m never moving from this spot,” Cas answers, his voice muffled, but sleepy and content.

Smoothing his hands up and down Cas’ backside—Dean’s decided he’s pretty much gonna touch Cas at every possible opportunity, now that he finally can—he presses a kiss just above Cas’ ear. “Not that I’m not all for that idea,” he murmurs, “but I kinda can’t breathe, babe.”

He can feel Cas’ smile against his heated skin before the other man rolls off him. “One orgasm and I get a pet name, huh?” he teases and if Dean weren’t still flushed from everything they just did, he’d be blushing.

“Uh, sorry. It just sorta came out.” 

“I like it,” Cas assures him, and Dean grins. They lie there for a minute just staring at one another and smiling dopily as their heart rates finally return to normal. Cas blinks his eyes heavily and Dean rolls forward to press a chaste kiss against chapped pink lips. 

“Be right back,” he says, grimacing a moment later at the tacky come covering his stomach as he stands and walks to the bathroom, really glad they still have an hour or so before Sam gets home. After cleaning himself up, he leaves the bathroom to find Cas waiting for his turn. 

A few minutes later, Cas rejoins him in the bedroom, shutting the door behind him before he joins Dean in bed. Dean only has a moment to wonder how this is gonna go before Cas snuggles right up to him, fitting into his arms like he belongs there. 

“Cas,” Dean whispers as he feels himself dropping off to sleep, “I’m glad it was you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Chapter Spoilers***
> 
> This is an extremely low angst. The boys have a conversation, work some things out, there's a bunch of domestic fluff and then nearly 4k of apology smut from your author for the multiple cliffhangers. Please enjoy. 💖
> 
> ***Finale Reflection***
> 
> So about that finale....First, if you loved the finale, liked it, or liked parts of it, then I am sincerely glad for you. I know some folks really enjoyed certain aspects of the finale and have felt worried about expressing their positive feelings for fear of causing more pain to others or being told they are wrong for feeling that way. If you’d like to use the comments here to squee about the things you liked, please take space to do so, without fear of retribution from me. I ask kindly that the rest of my readers respect that as well.
> 
> That said, I know that so many, many people are hurting as a result of the finale, myself included. If you are in that number, feel free to express those feelings as well. I am...well, I’m an emotional hot mess right now and I can’t promise any level of coherence or detailed response, but I will respond as I am able, even if it’s only to send you some love.  
> As for my own thoughts and feelings...I’m not going to rehash my entire reaction to the finale here, because I am hopeful that this chapter has been able to lift people’s spirits a little and I don’t want to bring the mood down. So, if you have questions for me you can ask them in the comments and if I’m able, I’ll answer. 
> 
> What I do want to say is this. I’ve spent time over the past few days dealing with a grief that, quite frankly, shocked me in its intensity. And I’m sure that’s true for many, regardless of their feelings toward the finale. And while my grief is very real and very acute, I’ve also come to realize that for quite some time now, the TV show and its plotlines have actually been the smallest part of what Supernatural is to me. 
> 
> When I found myself facing a long and painful recovery after my car accident two years ago, I turned to SPN for comfort, but it wasn’t the show I turned to. I was two seasons behind at that point and though I tried to use my unexpected free time to get caught up, I just couldn’t get invested the way I used to. My mind kept straying to _other_ Deans and Castiels instead. And so I found my solace in fanfiction. I read more fic in those six months than I think I have in the entire two years since. And our amazing fandom authors and artists soothed my soul with variation after variation of my favorite characters. 
> 
> And eventually, when the shock from my experience finally faded and I found myself needing to process all of the messy trauma and emotions left in its wake, it was to fanfiction I turned again...this time as a writer. And through that experience I found all of you. You beautiful, kind, incredible humans. You kindred spirits. You bright souls. Again and again I say that interacting with other fans is my favorite part of fandom and I’ve never felt the truth of those words more than I do now. Because when I’ve been at my lowest points...after the finale, after my accident, through most of this godforsaken shit show that has been 2020...it was you who picked me up, who comforted me, who shared your stories and your hearts with me. And so I hope you won’t mind if I keep sharing mine with you. 
> 
> "You asked, what about all this is real? We are."
> 
> 💖


	13. Enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Just...wow. Here we are you guys. This is it. The final chapter. Thank you all for all of the beautiful comments you left on last week's chapter. Sorry it took me so long to get caught up on comments. I had made it halfway through responding to the Chapter 11 comments when the finale aired and just couldn't face my inbox after that. Reading all of your hopes for the finale was just too painful. Oddly, reading your reactions to the finale somehow hurt less. But thank you to all of you who left love for this story and/or have shared your reactions, thoughts, and feelings about the show or life in general. So many of you have shared such beautiful piece of yourselves and your lives with me and I am humbled and grateful. I have loved getting to know each of you better. And I am just as grateful for all of you silent readers who leave your love in kudos form. Each of you has a beautiful story too and I'm thankful you let my words be a tiny part of it. 
> 
> Also, for all those who asked after my family, we are all healthy and well and our quarantine is over! Today was actually my first day back in the office and my youngest's first day back at daycare. I wish good health and safety for all of you and your families. 💖
> 
> To the amazing [AmandaCanzo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmandaCanzo/pseuds/AmandaCanzo): Thank you so much for bidding on me (not once, but twice!) and trusting me to create a story for you. It's a very special thing to write a story like this for someone, to create for someone...it gives a piece of you to that person. And speaking of which, thank you [LadyRandomBox](https://www.instagram.com/ladyrandombox/?hl=en) for sharing your beautiful gift with me and with all of our readers. I can see you reflected in every piece of art in this fic. 💖 I feel like, perhaps, not all people enter these charity auctions and then become friends with their bidders/biddees (we'll just pretend that's a word) and here it's happened to me twice. So grateful for you both. 💖
> 
> [EllenOfOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz), as always, you are a dedicated beta, cheer leader, and friend. You make my writing better. You make me better. Thank you for both. 💖
> 
> Okay, now that you're all sick of the sappiness before you even get to the love story, here we go. For the message art at the end, if you need larger text, just click on the picture and it will link you to the standard DM image. (And don't worry, YES I put the recipe from the title chapters in the end notes!)

“ _Mrawr.”_

Dean groans as a white paw connects repeatedly with his nose. “Stop that, you.”

“ _Mraaaawr,_ ” Cupcake mewls again, more insistently this time.

Opening his eyes, Dean blinks as a furry orange and white face slowly comes into focus, which takes longer than it normally would, since said face is only millimeters away from his. He’s lying on his side in bed, Cupcake staring at him from the other half of his pillow. 

The parts of Dean’s view not filled with blurry orange fur show his bedroom bathed in full sunlight. It’s no wonder Cupcake’s being so demanding. Even on his days off, she’s used to Dean being out of bed long before this.

Seeing that her human is finally awake, Cupcake ends her boxing practice, rubbing her nose against Dean’s instead. As he brings a sluggish hand up to stroke her soft fur, Dean feels a shifting on the mattress behind him, before a warm arm wraps securely around his waist.

“I think someone wants breakfast,” Cas murmurs sleepily, pressing a kiss to the back of Dean’s neck as he tucks up behind him. Dropping his hand to interlace his fingers with Cas’, Dean pulls the other man in closer, glad that Cas can’t see the dopey smile he can feel spreading across his face. 

“Morning,” he murmurs, pressing back against Cas’ solid form, including the _extra_ solid line of morning wood he can feel nestled against the crack of his ass.

“It’s a _very_ good morning,” Cas rumbles huskily in return, sleep and desire dropping his voice to a register that sends shivers down Dean’s spine...or maybe those are the kisses Cas is dropping along the tender junction between Dean’s shoulder and neck.

“Mmm,” he agrees, arching into the kisses and slowly moving his and Cas’ interlocked hands down toward where his own morning eagerness is tenting the sheet.

“ _MRAWR_.”

Dean lets out the unsexy kind of groan at the persistent kitten’s interruption.

Chuckling warmly, Cas pulls back, leaving a final kiss to Dean’s shoulder blade. “Go,” he orders sweetly. “We can pick this up later.”

Eyebrows (amongst other things) perking up at the thought of “later,” Dean sits up.

“Alright, you fuzzy little cockblock, I’m comin’,” he says to Cupcake, who immediately hops off the bed and heads for the closed door. “I thought we shut you out of here,” he tells her as he stands up, pulling on a pair of underwear and sleep shorts from his top dresser drawer.

“Take your time,” he says, turning to face Cas, who looks like a fucking _vision_ lying sprawled across Dean’s bed, the charcoal sheet draped across his waist, one muscled leg and bare torso on full display. “I mean, unless you have somewhere to be.” Dean rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. 

“I have to go into the shop later today,” Cas answers, “But I don’t have anywhere to be this morning if you’re okay with me hanging around.” The hopeful look he’s giving Dean would be enough to make Dean change just about any plans he might have had. 

“Never mind you bein’ around, Cas,” he says honestly, pulling a rumpled Zepp tee out of his next drawer. “I’ll go start some coffee and feed this monster,” he gestures to the cat twining herself around his ankles, preparing for her daily try-to-kill-your-owner hangry cat obstacle course. “When you’re ready to get up, just help yourself to some clothes and come on out to the kitchen.” 

Licking his lips and definitely _not_ thinking about the fact that he just told Cas to wear his clothes, Dean leaves the bedroom, pulling the door shut behind him and making his way to the kitchen via his usual route of hallway, bathroom, and cat hurdles. He only trips over Cupcake once, which might be a new record.

Cupcake’s eating her breakfast happily and the coffee is brewing when Dean hears the front door open. 

_Shit._ Sam. 

“Hey, Dean.” Sam toes off his running shoes by the door before crossing the living room and settling himself at the kitchen table. 

“Heya, Sammy.” Logically, Dean knows he has to tell Sam about Cas and relatively soon, given the fact that Cas is going to walk out of Dean’s bedroom any minute now. Instead, he turns around and pulls down a large mixing bowl before fetching the flour, sugar, and baking powder from a neighboring cabinet. “How do pancakes sound?”

“ _Your_ pancakes? Sounds great,” Sam enthuses, reaching down to give Cupcake a scratch as she headbutts him affectionately. “What’s the occasion?” 

“Since when do I need a special occasion to cook?” Dean deflects while whisking together the dry ingredients. “You know that’s what I _do,_ right?” 

“Yeah, for work,” Sam points out reasonably, “which is why you usually just eat cereal on your day off.” 

Spooning a few tablespoons of butter into a small bowl before placing it in the microwave to melt, Dean grumbles. “‘S not a special occasion.” Turning back to his bowl, he picks up the egg he’d pulled from the refrigerator with the butter.

“Okay,” Sam answers agreeably. “I just thought it might have something to do with that guy I saw when I let Cupcake into your room last night.”

“Son of a bitch!” Raw egg splatters everywhere as the shell hits the side of Dean’s bowl with about three times the force he’d intended. “You did that on purpose,” he accuses, pointing an egg-covered finger at Sam before turning to scoop bits of shell out of the pancake batter.

Sam, the snot-nosed pain in the ass, grins smugly. “So who’s the guy?” He leans forward eagerly. “Is that CJ? Did you guys make up?”

Rinsing his hands in the sink and drying them slowly on the towel looped over the oven door to buy himself some time, Dean licks his lips. “Uh. About CJ—”

“Oh, come on,” Sam interrupts. “Don’t tell me that’s just some rando in there, Dean! I thought you were tired of hookups?”

“It’s not some rando,” Dean defends, pouring the batter for the first pancake into the sizzling pan so he can delay facing his brother for a moment longer. “It’s—”

“Cas?” Sam asks in a way that is absolutely not a question and Dean spins around.

Standing awkwardly in the kitchen doorway, Cas shifts on his feet. “Hello, Sam.”

Sam’s eyes widen as he takes in the borrowed sleep shorts and Dean’s favorite AC/DC shirt. “Uh, yeah. Good morning, I guess.” He looks at Dean accusingly. “Hey Dean, Cas is here.”

“Look, Sam, I can explain,” Dean starts, but Sam cuts in gesturing between Cas and Dean.

“So wait. You two are…”

Dean’s brain goes blank and for a long moment, he and Cas just stare at one other. Sure, they’d talked about giving this thing between them a shot last night, but it’s not like they’d really gotten around to discussing specifics.

“Dean, do you have a spare toothbrush I can borrow?” Cas asks suddenly, still not having set foot in the kitchen. “I’d like very much to get out of this awkward conversation.”

Tension broken, Dean chuckles, getting a smirk from Cas in return. “Way to abandon me, asshole. In the bathroom. Bottom drawer.”

“Thanks.” With one last smirk, Cas retreats back toward the bathroom and Dean’s so distracted watching the sexy bastard go he almost forgets Sam is there.

“So. Cas?”

Almost.

“Yeah,” Dean answers, turning back around to flip the large, plate-sized pancake. “Cas.”

“But what about CJ?” Sam hisses in a whisper that Dean is certain can probably be heard in the next trailer over, let alone the bathroom several yards away. “Are you two really over? The way you talked about him, Dean, I really thought you guys had something. You’ve _never_ talked about someone like that. Especially not to me.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean tries again to explain. “The thing is—”

“Cas isn’t some kind of rebound is he?” 

“Sam.” He plates the first pancake, pouring the batter for a second as his interrupting moose of a brother barrels on. 

“Because that’s not cool, Dean. Cas is a really great guy and he’s your _friend,_ not to mention your business partner.”

“ _Sammy_ ,” Dean tries to cut in, not bothering to keep the irritation out of his rising voice as he crosses the tiny kitchen to where his self-righteous little brother is leaning forward across the table.

“So, if you’re just using him to get over CJ—”

“Sam!” Dean bellows as he drops the plate in front of Sam’s gobsmacked face. It hits the table with a clang, rolling around on its edge until it finally wobbles its way back to center, the vibration of ceramic on wood filling the suddenly silent kitchen. “Cas _is_ CJ!”

There. That went well.

“Uh…” Sam starts, but seems at a loss for what to say next, staring at Dean over the forgotten pancake.

Dean clears this throat. “Cas _is_ CJ, okay?” he tries again in a calmer voice. “There is no other guy. Eat your breakfast.” He nods to Sam’s plate, grabbing the maple syrup from the fridge and depositing it (gently) next to him, but Sam ignores him.

“So, you’ve been seeing _Cas_ all this time? Why didn’t you just tell me?” And goddammit, now Sam looks hurt, hitting Dean with the same puppy eyes that got him roped into attending a local theater’s production of _Rent_ last summer because Sam liked some girl in the cast _._ He couldn’t get that goddamn song out of his head for _weeks_ afterward.

“No, it’s not like that,” Dean assures quickly, but that just earns him a bitchface, because of course it would look that way to Sam. How else could it look?

Like pulling off a Band Aid, Dean explains as quickly as he can how the nerdy cat enthusiast who rescued him from kitten-fostering hell ended up also being the sexy billionaire-turned-barista who offered him his dream job, filling another plate with pancakes as he tells the story.

For nearly a full minute after his confession, Sam just stares at him in stunned silence...before suddenly doubling over in laughter. Yup. That feels _just_ like pulling off a Band Aid.

Sam’s wheezing too much for Dean to catch everything he says, but he definitely hears a couple “dumbasses” and “idiots” in there. 

Sighing, Dean slumps into the seat across from his brother. “What’s it gonna take for you to _not_ make a big deal outta this?” 

Sam sobers immediately, looking suddenly thoughtful. Shit. That doesn’t bode well for Dean.

“Vegan pastries,” he answers finally. “At The Bean.”

“Vegan...what? Why?” Dean asks in confusion. “This isn’t some new phase right? Veganism, Sammy? That’s not what people mean when they say ‘everyone experiments in college.’”

“It’s not for me, jerk,” Sam answers, shooting Dean another bitch face...number seven. Good choice. “It’s for Madison.”

“Who’s Madison?” Dean asks, even more confused. “What happened to Sarah?” 

“Sarah’s doing a semester abroad in Paris next fall and she’s hoping to get into some art program so she can finish out school there. She thought it would be better for us to break up now, before we were ‘invested.’” Sam rolls his eyes on the last word.

“Ouch. Sorry, man.” Dean pulls a pancake onto his plate from the stack in the center of the table. 

Shrugging, Sam finally smears some peanut butter on his pancake (the freak), and drowns the poor thing in syrup before taking a bite. “It’s alright. She was actually kinda snooty once I got to know her. Her family owns an art gallery and I didn’t always like the way she talked to the other art majors she was friends with. Like she was better than them or something...you know, exactly the way I tried to convince you Cas _isn’t_ ,” he ends smugly.

“Yes, I should have listened to you about Cas. I get it.” Dean spends a second imagining how satisfying it would be to replace Sam’s shampoo with Nair...again. “So, Madison?”

“Oh, yeah. So get this,” Sam says excitedly, before telling him the story of how he met Madison at the library a couple weeks ago (because his dorky little brother is the kind of college student who goes to the library _during summer break_ ) and learned that having finished up some of her general requirements at one of the local community colleges, she’s getting ready to transfer to Omaha. 

“She’s great, Dean,” Sam enthuses. “She’s really interested in the law, since she wants to go into criminal justice, so I can talk to her about my classes without her looking like she wants to jump out the nearest window.”

“Your classes...or your weird serial killer obsession?”

“It’s not an obsession,” Sam pouts, “but yeah, that too. And she’s pretty and funny and—”

“Vegan,” Dean cuts in around a mouthful of fluffy, buttery goodness.

“Exactly,” Sam agrees, “which is why you’re going to introduce a line of vegan pastries at the Bean. All your usuals.”

Dean shakes his head, knowing his brother well enough to realize Sam fully expects to be negotiated down. Goddammit. People who think they hate working with lawyers should try living with one. “I can’t do that, Sam. There’s no way we’d make enough a profit on having duplicates of all our usuals. Plus, it’s just me back there, man. I couldn’t even _bake_ all that.” He hesitates. “I could maybe do one item.”

“At least three regular items and two seasonal items, but you can rotate the seasonal ones,” Sam counters. 

Dean frowns. 

“Or I can just keep making fun of you over this whole Cas/CJ situation until it stops being funny. It’s not, by the way...going to stop being funny. And just wait till Meg and Benny find out!” 

_Fuck._ Sam’s won and by the look on his face, he knows it, the little shit. Dean’s simultaneously proud and annoyed as hell. He’s about to cave when a familiar deep baritone sounds from the doorway.

“One vegan option plus a seasonal item offered daily, with additional items to be added pending success of the first two and the hiring of more bakery staff,” Cas says brusquely, leaning against the peninsula with his arms crossed in front of him. “But, not only do you have to promise not to tease Dean for the way we met, you also have to do what you can to deter others.”

Sam’s eyebrows raise at the addition of having to keep others from making fun of them. Seeing the change, Cas adds, “And I’ll make sure we have at least two vegan specialty lattes on offer at all times.”

“Deal,” Sam responds immediately, positively beaming at Dean’s...Dean’s Cas. “Welcome to the family, Cas,” he says, offering a hand across the table. Moving to stand next to Dean, Cas rests one hand on Dean’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze as he reaches to shake Sam’s hand and if there was a single sliver of doubt still lodged somewhere in Dean’s subconscious, it’s now drowning in the olympic-sized pool of syrup on his brother’s plate. 

Cas is...Cas is it for him. This thing between them...it isn’t just going to work. It’s going to _last_. 

“Well, now _that’s_ settled, I’m gonna take a shower and call Madison. I can’t wait to let her know that Sioux Falls is about to have its first vegan friendly coffee shop.” Grinning, Sam practically skips out of the room, which Dean imagines must resemble a baby moose running for the first time. 

Cas chuckles as he heads for the coffee maker, helping himself to the cabinet of coffee mugs he discovered as they were washing dishes together last night.

Trying to swallow the bite of pancake that suddenly seems to have tripled in size and not look like he’s just had a life-altering epiphany, Dean takes a long swig of his own coffee.

“So,” Cas teases as he stirs in his cream, “I take it you told Sam.”

Finally managing to get the world’s longest lasting pancake bite down, Dean stares at him suspiciously. “I’m pretty sure I’ve never known someone to spend _that_ long brushing their teeth.”

“I’m thorough,” Cas retorts as he takes a seat next to Dean at the table, helping himself to a pancake. “Up and down, side-to-side, sing ‘Happy Birthday’ twice.” 

“I thought that last one was for washing your hands,” Dean points out. 

Cas shrugs, hiding a smirk behind his coffee mug that Dean can still see clear as day in his eyes. 

As Dean eyes him skeptically, Cupcake leaves her sunbeam-warmed spot of linoleum by the kitchen window to say hi, nosing at Cas’ muscular calves and Dean’s not sure who he’s more jealous of. 

“I think you stole my cat,” he pouts as Cas continues to eat. “Not that I can blame her. I’d follow you around too.”

“She’s just hoping I’ll give her some pancake,” 

“Well, I wouldn’t say no to you feeding me pancakes either,” Dean quips, trying not to imagine licking syrup off of every part of Cas.

Eyeing him smugly, Cas takes a slow bite of pancake, licking the last drops of syrup from the fork tines; he snorts when Dean flips him off in return. They sit in comfortable silence, Dean sipping his coffee as Cas finishes his breakfast.

It’s not until they’ve finished washing dishes that Dean realizes they’ve now shared two meals together. Catching Cas’ hand as he starts to move back toward the table, he tugs him in for a slow morning kiss, licking the taste of syrup and coffee from his lips. “I could get used to this,” he murmurs without thinking, freezing when he realizes what he’s just said.

A shy smile spreads across Cas’ face and Dean relaxes. “It sounds like Sam thinks you were pretty serious about this CJ guy,” he says quietly.

Licking his lips nervously, Dean tightens his arms around Cas’s waist a fraction. “Yeah. That’s because I was.”

“Hmm,” Cas hums, trailing a thumb across the nape of Dean’s neck in a way that makes him shiver. “And what about me? Do you think you could be that serious about a guy who used to eat at expensive restaurants and wore fancy suits?”

“Yeah. I think so,” Dean whispers, planting a soft kiss on Cas’ lips. “As long as you can be serious about a guy who’s never owned a fancy suit.”

“Hmm.That’s okay,” Cas answers with a teasing smile. “Someone once told you me you don’t need to fancy up pie.”

Dean grins. “You comparin’ me to pie, Cas? ‘Cause you know how I feel about pie.”

“Yes, Dean.” Cas rolls his eyes affectionately before leaning in for another kiss, “You’re my pie.”

Dean smiles. 

“Me too, Cas.”

“Hey, boss man,” a snarky voice pulls Castiel away from next week’s catering bookings on his computer screen. “I need the cupcake order for Mills. She says they’re ‘slime cakes?’” One pale hand resting on her hip, blonde hair piled in a loose bun, their newest bakery employee stands in the office doorway with a slightly befuddled expression. Completely inexperienced, twenty-year-old Claire had shown up to her interview with nothing but a black leather jacket and a “give’em hell attitude,” as Dean had described it. Dean had been a little hesitant at first, but Castiel has a good feeling about her.

“In the cooler,” he answers his assistant baker. “They’re chocolate cupcakes with green-tinted vanilla custard filling,” he explains to Claire, who wrinkles her nose, but turns back toward the kitchen to fetch the order.

Cas chuckles as he follows her down the hallway to say hi to Sheriff Mills himself. A long-time regular, she’d asked Dean if he’d be willing to tackle a special request for her son, Owen, who insisted upon a “slime cake” for his eighth birthday. Dean had been happy to oblige. He’d tried three different recipes for the neon green “slime” icing before he’d been satisfied.

“Family Business Bakery and Beanery” he hears Linda answer the phone as he rounds the corner and steps behind the beanery counter. He nods to let her know he can cash out Ms. Mills before turning to face the dark-haired woman on the other side of the counter. 

“Good afternoon, Sheriff,” he greets, earning a sideways grin and raised eyebrow in response.

“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Jody?” Sheriff Mills asks. Her arms are crossed in front of her, but her eyes are warm. 

Grinning at the old argument, he ignores the question, asking instead, “How’s Owen? Is he excited for his party?”

Jody’s face lights up the way it always does when she talks about her son. “Are you kidding? It’s all he’s talked about for _days_ .” She rolls her eyes affectionately. “My house is about to be overrun by pre-adolescent boys making and probably _throwing_ slime at each other. I’m just thankful it’s May, so we can do that part outside.”

“Here ya go, Jodes,” Claire appears from the kitchen, carefully setting the box of cupcakes on the countertop, their reimagined FBB logo, a scattering of coffee beans next to Mary’s measuring cups, emblazoned on the top.

“Thanks, Claire.” Jody smiles as she slides the box toward herself before pulling out her wallet to pay for the “slime cakes.”

“How are things going back there?” Castiel can’t help but ask as he cashes Jody out. It’s Claire’s first solo day in the kitchen, after all. 

Dramatic eye roll emphasized by heavily mascaraed lashes, Claire pulls at the loose knot on the back of Castiel’s burgundy FBB apron, causing it to untie as she walks back toward the kitchen. “Cut the apron strings, Castiel. I’ve got this. Now get out of here before Hasselholf has a full-on meltdown.”

“Are you sure you don’t need any help before I go?” he asks as Claire saunters down the hallway. 

“Stay out of my kitchen, coffee-boy,” she calls over her shoulder as she steps through the swinging door. “Go home.”

“That’s right,” Sheriff Mills— _Jody_ —says after Claire has disappeared, “You have your own party to be getting ready for. How’s Dean handling everything?”

Chuckling affectionately, Castiel pulls off his apron. “He’s coping, but I think it’s safe to say he’s a little more...emotional than usual.” His smile widens. “He’s been sending me sweet little messages all morning. It’s his nerves,” he explains as Jody looks confused. “He was the same way when Sam graduated from Omaha, but it’s even more so this time around.” Castiel honestly hadn’t expected Dean to be _more_ nervous getting ready for Sam’s graduation party than he was about getting on a “flying metal death trap” to attend his actual graduation in California two weeks ago, but that seems to be the case.

“Reminds me of when Owen started kindergarten,” Jody says with a nostalgic smile. “I think I had to talk Sean off the ledge at least twice a day the entire week beforehand. Poor guy was in total panic mode by the day of and then of course everything was just fine.”

“Dean’s not quite in panic mode yet, but I have a feeling my house is going to be filled with at least three times the number of cupcakes we actually need.” His grin widens. “And if he’s going to get this sappy every time his brother reaches a new milestone, I may have to convince Sam to get his doctorate.”

Jody laughs along with Cas before asking in surprise, “Cupcakes for a law school graduation party?” 

Shrugging, Cas explains, “Sam’s fiancee, Eileen, has a gluten allergy. Dean’s doing cupcakes so he can make a gluten-free recipe for her and other flavors for everyone else. I’m not sure which though. Apparently Sam is being ‘an indecisive pain in the ass.’” After vegan-Madison and nut-allergy-Jess, Dean’s become rather skilled at adapting his recipes for diverse dietary needs. He has a feeling, however, that unlike the others, Eileen’s presence in their lives isn’t going to be outlived by her menu additions.

“This Eileen,” Linda’s voice cuts in from where she’s been not-so-subtly eavesdropping while wiping down the display case, “what’s she like? She’s not one of those California gold diggers, is she?”

Castiel fights a smile at the question. Ever since Kevin had a very serious talk with his mother and switched his major from pre-med to art history his sophomore year, Linda has warmed considerably towards the younger Winchester, long hair and all. 

Unfortunately, this now means that her protective nature has shifted to whatever girl Sam happens to bring home. Amelia was too meek. Jess was too loud and too blonde. 

“Eileen seems very well matched to Sam,” he answers. “She’s intelligent, funny, and kind, but she can certainly hold her own in an argument. And since she’s also graduating from Stanford Law this year, with higher honors than Sam, I don’t think you need to worry about her being a ‘gold digger.’”

After a moment, Linda nods approvingly. “Good. I look forward to meeting her tonight.” 

Castiel arches a doubtful eyebrow. He’s certain Linda is still going to test the woman that her new pseudo-son has chosen, but he’s more than confident Eileen is a match for her. 

“Speaking of tonight,” he says while checking his watch, “if I’m going to help Dean set up, I’d better go.” He says his goodbyes to his staff and follows Jody out the door, heading around the corner to the powder blue Prius Dean absolutely detests. 

Twenty minutes later, as he unlocks the door to their shared home, Castiel feels a buzz from his pocket. Pausing with his key still in the dark wood door, he pulls out his phone, unlocking it with a touch. Smiling when he sees the Twitter notification, he opens his DMs, a familiar face looking at him from Dean’s profile picture. He wonders what sweet, nerve-induced message Dean is sending him now.

After a long moment spent staring at the phone in his hand, Castiel licks his lips and drops the device back into his pocket, unlocking the door hurriedly and quickening his pace as he moves through their home toward the room he knows Dean will be in. It’s the one room in their otherwise modest home in which they spared no expense, the kitchen. Pulling open the custom French doors they added to separate the kitchen from the rest of the house before they moved in, Castiel strides across the large white tiles toward the man on the far side of the room.

His back to the room, Dean closes the door of one of the state-of-the-art ovens he’d picked out after weeks of research. He straightens, his familiar pink apron standing out against the white countertops and cabinetry in their modern kitchen, bringing a smile to Castiel’s lips. He really loves that apron.

Ignoring, for now, the cooled and decorated cupcakes lining the granite top of their large kitchen island, Castiel steps up behind his boyfriend. He knows Dean must have heard him come in, but he takes his time turning around, a nervous smirk gracing his features. Castiel wastes no time kissing it off him. Wrapping his arms around Dean’s neck, Castiel drags their bodies together, heedless of the stray icing and cake batter smearing across his black button-down from Dean’s apron.

Once they’re both breathless and rumpled, Dean pulls back enough to look Castiel in the eye, biting his lip with a grin. “Hey, babe. I take it you got my message.”

“Hello, Dean. You made honey-vanilla cupcakes,” Castiel answers matter-of-factly. 

Smiling at the non-sequitur, Dean shrugs. “They’re your favorite.”

“But Sam—”

“Helped come up with the whole plan,” Dean interrupts smoothly. “He thought we should celebrate _all_ the good things happening in our family while we’re all together. I agreed.”

"Presumptuous." Castiel smirks.

“Hopeful,” Dean corrects softly. “I have faith.”

Dean’s leaning in to kiss him again when a tiny, high pitched mewl catches their attention. Turning as one, they both look to the island countertop, where a scene of chaos greets them. Castiel looks over in time to see one of their foster kittens, a calico named Buffy— _because calicos are always girls, Cas_ —pounce gleefully on a honey-vanilla cupcake in a delicate gold wrapper. Her much more stoic counterpart, a smoky gray called Angel, sits nearby, licking buttercream icing off a paw. Feisty ginger Willow and her equally playful brother Spike, who thanks to the icing has far more white marking his black fur than the usual single patch on his chest, battle one another on a ground of smashed cake, seemingly fighting over the tasty spoils. 

Cupcake sits primly on the only clean section of countertop, surveying the mess and looking vaguely disapproving in that haughty way only cats and Castiel’s mother can.

Castiel turns back to Dean sheepishly. “That’s why you had the doors closed.”

“That’s why I had the doors closed,” Dean agrees with a sigh. He’s frowning, but his dancing green eyes give him away and it’s only a few seconds before Castiel sees his lips twitching. Breaking into simultaneous laughter, they collapse into one another, foreheads pressed together and Castiel doesn’t think his heart has ever been this full.

“You know,” Dean murmurs after a moment, “you never answered my message.”

Heart leaping in his chest like one of the pouncing kittens on the nearby countertop, Castiel pulls his phone out of his pocket, quickly typing and pressing send, before turning it to show Dean. Dean’s eyes fill with tears that Castiel knows are mirrored by his own as he smiles beatifically, happier than Castiel has ever seen him. Castiel tosses his phone on the counter, their last messages still visible as he wraps both arms back around the man in front of him.

[ ](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/727055845380194366/781275633505271838/CK_Proposal_DM.jpg)

“I love you,” Dean says shakily, tears threatening to spill over cheeks flushed with love and joy.

Castiel smiles.

“Me too, Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, my friends, I hope you liked it! It might not have been a very "poignant" ending, but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless. 😉
> 
> Thank you, again, from the bottom of my heart for all of your incredible love and support during my little baker!Dean finds a kitten story. I never expected this little bit of fluff to have such a dedicated following and I am overcome. You are all remarkable. 
> 
> I hope you loved the art from our dear LadyRandomBox. She really went all out for this fic, guys! Go show her some love on Insta or Twitter. Please. There will be one additional art piece posted with this chapter. It's not quite finished, but will be WELL worth checking out! Make sure you follow her on Insta or Twitter or me on Twitter to see it!!
> 
> And now, the moment you have all been waiting for: the chapter titles recipe! [This](https://tastesbetterfromscratch.com/our-favorite-banana-bread/) is the recipe for the banana bread I have made at least 65 times since quarantine started in March. May it bring you as much deliciousness as it has me! 
> 
> If you're still reading this, I'll have a few Christmas presents posting later this month for you! Be sure to subscribe to me or follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/MandalaRose2)or [Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/mandala.rose.5891) if you want to know when those post!
> 
> Until then, friends...
> 
> Y yo a ti.

**Author's Note:**

> *This story is not affiliated, associated, endorsed by, or in any way officially connected with Random Acts, or any of its subsidiaries or its affiliates. All donations have been paid directly to Random Acts, who do not own Supernatural or any of the characters in the stories.
> 
> If you're enjoying this story, consider reblogging it here!
> 
> If you'd like to see more from me or come say hi, I'm [a-mandala-rose](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/a-mandala-rose) on Tumblr, [MandalaRose Fanfic](https://www.facebook.com/mandala.rose.5891) on Facebook, and [@MandalaRose2](https://twitter.com/MandalaRose2) on the Tweeter. I'd love to talk to you!


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